the punch clock hero

one for sorrow, two for mirth three for a funeral, four for a birth five for heaven, six for hell, seven for the devil, his own self. Mundungus Fletcher. 25. Belfast child. Purveyor of Fine Goods & Services. The Patron Saint of Lost Causes.

[fletchxr-blog]

vanityxburke:

Someone had blabbed. 

Just a week ago the Death Eaters had been no closer to finding out who the Patron Saint was than they were to uncovering the whereabouts of the Order’s headquarters. She’d made sure of the former, planting false little trails of breadcrumbs and gently misdirecting their attentions elsewhere whenever they strayed too close to home. It would’ve hardly reflected well on her personally for them to find out Borgin & Burkes had been perched atop a smuggling ring this entire time. At best she’d be branded an idiot; the good faith she’d scrounged up in three years worth of contributions to the cause suddenly laid to waste in light of her painful obliviousness. At worst… she’d be accused of playing both sides.

In a life that could best be described as a dirty laundry heap full of secrets, precious few of them had the power to destroy her quite so spectacularly as did the knowledge of what Knockturn Alley hid beneath its grimy, cobbled feet.

Amycus’ sudden arrival at the shop had seen the bottom drop out from under her stomach. Emma had assumed Mundungus was just off on another one of his grave digging expeditions (if she’d told the Order once she’d told them a thousand times – she wasn’t his keeper), but as she combed through the shop’s stock of Veritaserum potions at Amycus’ behest, listening to him explain their captive situation while she inconspicuously switched out one of the vials, a tremor of fear too real to ignore crept up her spine. How much did he know?

She found, however, an eerie tranquility when inside the Carrow’s estate, as if the memories of atrocities past, some committed by her own hand, eased the transition into the bloodless role that was expected of her. If there was anything her time with the Carrow siblings had taught her, it was the art of shutting down. Amycus pushed open a door and a murmur of lumos sucked all the darkness out of the room, confirming her worst fears in a flash of blinding light: Mundungus lay hunched over in a corner; the infamous Patron Saint brought in to meet his maker.

“My apologies for the lack of r-refreshments. We hope this satisifies,” Amycus said coldly, throwing a pointed look her way. She gave him a short nod, recovering the Veritaserum from her coat as he conjured himself up a chair.

It was unfortunate that a universal signal for “it’s just water” had yet to be invented as she crouched down next to Mundungus and uncapped the vial, too conscious of the pale blue eyes burning a hole in the back of her head to offer him anything more than an unnervingly blank look. The mark on her arm demanded some show of force; Emma seized a fistful of Mundungus’ hair and yanked his head back, shoving the contents of her fake potion down his throat.

“Bottom’s up, Mr. Fletcher,” came Amycus’ toneless voice accompanied by a jingle of jewelry. She inhaled a sharp breath through her nose; it was Mundungus’ chain dangling from in between Amycus’ fingers. “O-Or is it St. Jude nowadays?”

Mundungus Fletcher had grown quite accustomed to the dark: he was a creature who thrived in the dusty corners of the world, who preferred hidden tunnels and grimy shadows, a man with grave dirt beneath his fingernails and a pocketful of stolen watches. The flare of light that burst from Amycus’s wand turned his face away from the entrance to what he supposed might have once been a root cellar and now smelt of the kind of decay that he usually associated with graverobbing. (There may have been some irony there that he’d finally dug his own grave, but Mundungus wasn’t all that keen on searching for it.)

Bleary eyes blinked, once then twice, against the invasive light before he turned to squint against it, licking his lips as he considered the implications of the vial caught between Emma’s fingers and the swift, no-nonsense approach that she took at Amycus’s prodding. Panic was perhaps his first instinct, the blank expression on Emma’s face providing little consolation against the sharp wrench of his hair or the spluttering against the vial tipped down his throat. Mundungus was not a man who liked to be cornered and it seemed that he’d finally run out of places to vanish into.

Veritaserum was the kind of exposure that you couldn’t come back from and Emma had to know that too. How many of her secrets did he hold in his grubby little hands? His fingers coiled at his sides as he coughed loudly, like it might buy him some time, an act that was swallowed when his eyes caught upon the gleaming silver token dangling from Amycus’s fingers. That name shivered down his spine, his breath catching uncomfortably in his throat as he waited and waited and waited for the Veritaserum to strip his tongue of it’s silver lining.

And yet.

A demanding prompt of, “Mr. Fletcher,” startled him into life.

“Wotsit,” he peered up through squinting eyes with all the charm of a Wyvern patron he’d just pulled out of last night’s rubbish. Mundungus’s mind was racing with possibility, tongue sticking heavily in his mouth as he cleared his throat, wondering if his best impression of Handsome Jack after a three-day-bender might somehow impress upon the Carrow exactly how unclever he really was. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “I don’t know nothing about any saints. I nicked that from a grave down in Brighton.”

He sniffed, turning his chin down away from the eerie, unshifting gaze or the slow mesmerising swing of his mother’s necklace and reached up to scratch at the back of his neck with jittery fingers like it might dissuade the jackrabbiting of his heart. That was a lie. A blatant lie at that. Veritaserum clearly wasn’t what had been forced down his throat, though knowing Borgin & Burke’s store of poisons, that wasn’t a particularly comforting thought. “Tell him, Emma, I’m just a — a bartender who sometimes sells stolen goods for a very reasonable finders fee. I don’t know nothing about your - whatever it is you’re looking for.”

The slow turn of Amycus’s head towards Emma was perhaps a reminder that assuming any kind of relationship with a member of the Death Eaters while he was under suspicion wasn’t a particularly good friend thing to do. But rather than comment on that plea Amycus lowered the necklace to his lap, fingers twirling agitatedly at the wand settled in his hand and impatience clear in his voice, “Y-your potion does not appear to be working.”

[fletchxr-blog]

@vanityxburke The Carrow Manor

Mundungus was beginning to lose track of time.

It couldn’t have been more than a week, that much he had gathered. The stubble on his face suggested at least three days, but as the days began to blend together with the lack of windows or daylight to guide by and all of his watches removed from his person, all that was left to him was the ability to guess. Guessing wasn’t going so well. Not when the long and varied list of reasons why he had been tossed into a dark, windowless sill almost all amounted to the fact that someone had talked about any one of his sins (or virtues, depending on where you were standing) and that every single one of those would lead him straight to the gallows.

If there was one perk of associating with known rebels and supposedly heroic types, Mundungus had assumed it would be heroic rescues but as the hours trickled past, the whisper in his ear that he did his utmost best to ignore had begun to question exactly how likely that was. Oh, the Order liked their martyrs, alright. Dying for a cause was written into the contract, it seemed. Why would they rescue him? A criminal, a scoundrel, a half-hearted contributor to the great rebellion. It was the associating that had brought him here in the first place; Saints weren’t inclined to living long or particularly happy lives anyway — he really should have thought the whole thing through a little better. 

A snick of the lock had him uncurling from his uneasy perch in the corner, coiled up like a snake waiting to strike as the door creaked open and rearing back at the glimmer of light that crept inside. There were few people who possessed the ability to make a resident of Knockturn Alley openly recoil — Amycus Carrow was one of them.

The woman who stood behind him, face entirely impassive, was another — though for different reasons entirely. His stomach twisted, coiling into uneasy knots as the question of why Emma made it’s home there.

“Elevensies, is it?” he asked with a slow bat of his eyes as he leaned back into the cell wall, half to support his weight and half to give the appearance of nonchalance, “I’ve been waiting all morning.”

[mjwatson]

The Niffler 

A mischievous, yet adorable creature that looks like a cross between a mole and a duck-billed platypus who like to steal shiny things. These animals have a magical pouch that allows them to store their treasures. 

[fletchxr-blog]

alectocxrrow:

It had been an arm she’d been sent for. The limb, hanging weakly by the side of a wizard groaning pitifully in the dank corner of the interrogation cell he’d been left in, had been shattered sometime during the night, and by the time a healer’s presence was requested it had mottled - a sickening purple and blue blooming across the skin, a shade not too dissimilar to the forgotten and bloated corpse the man was aspiring to be. He’d hissed at her to leave me the fuck alone, and for a moment, Alecto had been consumed with the urge to make him scream those words in a new context all of his own make.

But her desires had gone without action, and she’d left him there to marinate in drenched sweat and soiled clothes until his next round of interrogators for whatever crime he was suspected of committing made an appearance, probably not for another few hours at least. Stalking down the dimly lit corridor on her intended way out, Alecto’s eyebrows momentarily twitched in annoyance as a grating Irish brogue suddenly cut through the air - a racket worthy of having vocal cords torn out, shredded in their owners hand of their own forced doing. She almost continued straight on by the room housing the incarcerated wizard, but when she drew nearer, their head just managing to clear the tiny cell window, they continued -

Are you letting us go or what?

Alecto stopped. A moment passed, and she turned to face the man, tilting her head slightly as she peered up to meet his eyes. She held her gaze a few seconds too long on Mundungus Fletcher, once a boy like every other of their House she had filed away in the crevices of her mind before the night muggleborn blood had been caught spilt, and in her own eyes, she said nothing.

“Mr Borgin,” she said. She raised a hand, pale fingers snaking around one of the thick bars that were on either side of the glass pane. “And I was going to visit you this afternoon, too. Emma’s just not as good with poisons…”

She trailed off. A blithe comment, purposefully and obviously referencing yet ignoring the man’s circumstance. She’d find out, in time, why he of the store she most usually frequented had been brought here. Yet still her voice dripped poison, inherently laced with cruelty over even such a simple string of words. Bartender. That was new - Borgin and Burkes, it seemed, was apparently not work enough.

In truth, he hadn’t expected a reaction. 

It had been hours of the same, a monotonous stand-off of silence that he supposed was designed to strain their nerves in the very precise way that it was playing his like a violin. Mundungus was a man ill-suited to confinement, but for the first time all morning he was mildly grateful for the bars that separated him from the outside world if only for the imposition they placed upon the immediate vicinity that Alecto Carrow was currently inhabiting. 

The leap of his heart towards his throat at her sudden appearance at his window, ghostlike and dead-eyed, was barely contained, the urge to slink backwards only kept in check by the grounding reminder of that name. Mr. Borgin. A responsibility and a reputation to keep in check if he wanted his business to outlast this little adventure.

Given his day didn’t end at the gallows, that was.

"You might have to satisfy yourself with Caratacus, Miss Carrow,” he replied after a moment, foregoing the customary salesman’s smile if only because there was little to sell in this place beyond his own dignity and he wasn’t quite willing to fork that out yet, “My dancecard,” he gestured mirthfully at the confines of the cell, “Appears to have become unexpectedly full today. I’ve hardly a moment to myself.”

This, he supposed, was what happened when you didn’t keep your big mouth shut. 

[fletchxr-blog]

transfigurare:

Minerva was silent during Mundungus’ spiel, finding a more ironic amusement in the words that perhaps he would like. Her thoughts were displayed in her expression, which maintained a regular sense of stoicism, enough to appear unfeeling in all forms. It was lucky aspect, however, of her own patience, and she would be one to wait if the situation was simpler, if it didn’t correlate with her being outdoors in that moment and the safety of her own students wasn’t at stake each day. She knew the danger of her actions, of course she did, of being there at all - however, Minerva’s first response wasn’t always to be careful, especially if the consequences wouldn’t be felt with her. Things can take its time, but that was something she had to learn and it still didn’t apply to all situations. 

What he believed to be an interruption, was the slight raise of her eyebrows with his final statements, more silent question if he was truly going to reach such conclusions to the conversation. He was quite a lot of talk - this she found ironic as well. If he was so concerned about his face finding its way to a poster, he shouldn’t tell such long stories, and she knew part of it may be nerves, especially of what they had just witnessed, the deaths of her own colleagues, friend, yet, the emotions were buried to a degree. She felt them, of course, the anger, the grief all over again, but fretting and imagining her own self or her students up there wasn’t going to solve anything. Her nerves were shown in how quickly she worked again, the expectations she held dear of far more importance than all else. There was anger for the Ministry, furious, but such emotions wouldn’t be wasted on the streets or conversation.

In the moment, she was calm, not insulted by his words, though knowing full well their implications. It was true, she wasn’t as good as he was in the act of hiding in public, she spent months in the same manor and ventured out in quiet places, when the time was usually right instead of silently dire. She never hid in plain sight, rather, in a far off abandoned home with those helping to conceal the school and the students. However, Minerva still held some authority, in that she was his professor and had known him since he was a child, and she had been teaching long enough to notice the hints of fear. While he may be an adult now and she would treat him as such, she wasn’t going to be one that would let the control of the conversation go to him or have him run away. In all, her questions about the rumors enveloping him and what she thought could be created from them were a benefit to the children, something good to be done that he could do, something more than the others rumors she heard of him. ( The world that surrounded Mundungus his entire life wasn’t one a child ever deserved and if she could change the place he was raised in a moment, she would without thought. In the same sense the children of the Wizarding World didn’t deserve the place they found themselves now and she would go to great lengths to do what she could. Mundungus Fletcher now had the skillset and the age to do something about it, further good that what he was already beginning, and from his actions, she would accept the idea that he wasn’t already a part of the rebellion in his own sense. )

“We both know there are far more dangers than ending up at the Gallows and there’s far more to reality than your face on a poster,” she began, “And if you believe it’s going to be this conversation that puts you in danger, you can choose the place to talk,” her voice was still calm and did him some power in how he wanted to handle the situation, but a sternness was there, the same action she displayed to students, a tone of voice that announced that the other couldn’t escape the conversation.

With an even voice, what she said to him next was what she believed would catch his attention from his own thoughts, she knew his nature, assuming it hadn’t changed from his time at Hogwarts, “It’s all your choice. If you want no part in this conversation and what follows, there are others I plan to speak to about the same work those rumors depict and the great deal of customers that would follow.” More people to aid meant a greater income, though she wasn’t fond of referring to the rebels and the students as customers. Many of the actions of the rebellion were volunteer, though she doubted that was the place Mundungus would begin. ( This wasn’t the place she would end with him, or planned, she still would have a higher belief that he could be more than the places that influenced him, however, she had to get through the door first for him to listen and have it be his decision to do so if anything would be done at all. )

The problem with Minerva McGonagall and people of her ilk was that she saw him and, worse still, that she recognised him. It was an irritating quality at best, one that fostered an uneasy feeling in the pit of Mundungus’s stomach that spread through every nerve until it grated it’s way through his entire system. Mundungus dwelt quite squarely within the shadows of the world, a place just grubby enough to suit him, and a spotlight did him little favours.

People like Minerva McGonagall, the ones who’d known him before he’d dove headfirst into the dark and grimy corners of Knockturn Alley had far too many frames of reference to compare the man he was to the boy he’d been. He’d been no saint within Hogwarts’s walls for sure, but he liked to consider himself a man unrecognisable from the boy he’d been at Hogwarts. Harder in every sense.

Her silence was perhaps the thing that itched at him the worst, as if his every word was magnified for inspection by the imposing presence of her lack of speech. Worse still was that it worked, the careful application of the right barbs and that imperious silence that reminded him how deeply he disliked all things authority and the long-lingering ghosts of stern matriarchal figures.

“There’s dangers enough for every corner of this hell-forsaken city,” he replied with an irritable curl of his lip, patting down the pockets of his coat in search of a familiar carton of cigarettes and hunching his shoulders as he slouched against the grimy brick of the pub, eyes drifting back to the scarcely populated cobblestones of Horizont Alley. “You needn’t pretend to appeal to my better nature, Professor,” he cast a broad and insincere smile her way before tugging the carton of cigarettes free with a triumphant, ha. His hands preoccupied themselves with the familiar ritual, his very own sacrament, accompanied by the flare of light and the sharp smell of tobacco as he lifted the cigarette to his lips.

“If someone was in the hypothetical business of whatever it is that you may or may not be accusing me of, your customers as you call them,” he took a long drag from the cigarette, holding the smoke until his lungs began to burn and the immediate release of nicotine spread through his system before releasing the smoke in a slow billowing cloud, “They’ll soon find there’s certain paths in this world that can be difficult to navigate these days if they’re wanting to not disappear along the way. In my line of business I come across a lot of highly sought after artefacts — the kind that some people, perhaps, would go to great lengths to find and others still would pay for the pleasure of ensuring these goods made it to their intended destination beneath the notice of those who might be looking for them. The art isn’t in hiding the goods, it’s in moving them. That takes a certain amount of insider knowledge.”

He sniffed, flicking ash from the tip of his cigarette and leaning back into the bricks of the pub pointedly as he lifted it back to his mouth, hesitating a moment before he added a helpful, “My da always said that if you can do something well, you should never do it for free.”

[fletchxr-blog]

persxnatus:

Marlene laughed without tempering herself or her reaction, always feeling ore comfortable being herself in the dingy pub. Perhaps she could get a job there, another way to avoid having to go back to the Avery mansion. It was worth at least debating, though she doubted she’d ever be able to tell her father where exactly it was. She didn’t think bartender was the kind of profession he had envisaged for the Avery heir.

“I can imagine she did say that and she wasn’t wrong. I can’t imagining anyone ever ‘catching’ you. You’re a slippery bastard, aren’t you?” She sipped her drink, one eyebrow arched in slight mocking of his entire pretend persona. She knew it was bullshit just as well as he did and it amused her endlessly that they’d both decided to play along in a world of pretend.

“Scoundrels are always more interesting on a cold night like tonight.” Marlene mused, thinking of the Marauders. It was fair easier to describe them as scoundrels instead of gentlemen. She tilted her head as she watched the drunk’s head move, amused but managing to keep a straight face. “You’re right, that is exactly the kind of man I want in my life to keep me entertained when the nights get lonely.” Her eyes rolled slightly, though that didn’t stop her from refilling her own drink which had gone down surprisingly quickly.

She met his toast, letting her glass clink easily against his, with an appealing sloosh of the liquid inside it. “To not being a lady.” She knew very well that practicing a modicum of restraint with her drinking would have been better, but that didn’t stop her from downing the glass she’d just poured and once more refiling it. “You’re going to need to move a little faster, Fletcher, if you’re going to want more than that glass out of this bottle.”

“As an eel,” he agreed with a tip of his glass in her direction, an acknowledgement of just how well she’d pegged him (not that he ever particularly tried to be anything other than he was within the confines of the White Wyvern). Marlene was the kind of girl who belonged in a place like this, one with just enough grit to not be swallowed up by the filth of the place.

Mundungus was inordinately fond of the misfits who washed up in this bar — it did not mean, however, that he trusted her any further than he trusted the slumbering drunk a few stools down. That was the thing about a place like this, understanding did not foster trust.

"If you keep drinking like the pubs on fire you’re going to get people concerned. They’ll start thinking you know something they don’t,” he replied with a curl of his lip, obligingly lifting his glass to drain the whiskey that remained in one smooth mouthful, blinking away the burn with a satisfied hum before he reached for the bottle with his hand to deftly refill the glass before she decided to make this a competition. “Besides it’s dangerous business telling an Irishman he needs to drink more. Some might say it’s downright irresponsible, don’t you think, Mr. Trigg?”

The other barman was nowhere to be found upon further inspection, a realisation that didn’t seem to perturb Mundungus at all as whiskey glugged cheerfully into his glass with an accompanying curl of smoke for full effect. “You know nobody really comes here just for the atmosphere, McKinnon. It’s a cold day in hell before Tiggy remembers we’re supposed to wash the glasses. I’m starting to wonder if all that whiskey has gone to your head with the shine you’ve taken to that stool — it’ll be the scotch — good Irish whiskey’ll never do you wrong. The scottish stuff though—”

A hand waved noncommittally at his side as the bottle thunked back to the bartop and he reached for his glass instead with a low whistle, “—Never trust a man who serves you scotch.” He absently turned the bottle so the label that bore the proud proclamation of Finest Scotch Whisky was facing Marlene with a broad smile and nudged it back towards her with the back of his knuckles as he took a long sip from his glass. “So what’s so dreary about your life that you’re in need of a scoundrel, McKinnon?”

[fletchxr-blog]

wcrmtxil:

The man’s situation seemed…elaborate, but Peter supposed that was to be expected when a clown was hiding from a murderous supervisor in their shadow. They followed his finger and caught sight of the brunette, wincing when they saw her expression and quickly looking away. They certainly didn’t want to get on the wrong side of her, and it seemed that that would be inevitable if they stuck around for much longer. “Dunno how I could argue that she did you wrong if you admit you’re in the wrong, but okay.” Maybe they’d just stay put and run for the hills if she came stomping over–make everyone happy. That seemed like the best bet, and Peter let out a heavy sigh. “Fine, I’ll stay. I’m running if she comes this way though. You’re on your own.”

He’d picked a good hiding place, or so the complacent answer seemed to imply, the furrow of their forehead and the permissive sigh only feeding into the very particular needs that Mundungus required of a human shield. “Good kid,” he declared delightedly, clapping a hand against Peter’s shoulder, “Don’t overthink this. The point of you being here is that she won’t come over and I have to say that you’re doing a bang-up job so far.”

Forehead furrowing ever so slightly he paused before asking, “Why are you loitering by the tunnel of love anyway? Waiting for your sweetheart?” Something tugged at the strings of his memory and his head tilted, eyes narrowing as he asked, “Do I know you?”

[fletchxr-blog]

disguiiises:

She felt her blood boiling. Everything about this man made her not want to touch him with a ten-foot pole, and Roxanne had to wonder why the hell she’d tried to be friendly back at that bookshop. She didn’t have a necessarily great taste in judgement when it came to people, which honestly wasn’t a good thing in this world, but she tried. Boy, had she done something wrong. “Shut up. Honest bystanders? I know it was you.”

It’s not like I ever cost you any very delicate business deals or an afternoon’s worth or earnings now, did I? Well shit. Roxanne took a deep breath and crossed her arms across her chest. So that’s what had happened. “Look, how the hell was I supposed to know that you had some weird business in a bookstore? Drop it, dude. Give me my watch.”

The cotton candy offer made her scowl, and Roxanne just narrowed her eyes.

“You know what was who?” he replied with an unaffected smile, twirling the stick of his cotton candy as he dragged the heels of his boots up to drape his forearms across the bend of his knees, watching the steadily growing indignant rage build in the bookstore girl’s face. It was, in a word, satisfying. 

“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” he replied brightly, rolling his weight forward onto the balls of his feet and standing as he made a show of dusting off his pants. “But if I did, I would say that any trinket you may have dropped in the crowd would barely constitute as payment for any wrongs you might have done to a person by interfering in their business. Maybe you’ll be more careful with minding your own business in the future.”

Mundungus beamed, tipping his head as if in a mock bow before turning on his heel to slip between the crowd. He had no doubt the girl would be in swift pursuit — if anything she didn’t seem to know how to quit or take a hint. “If you keep following me I’m going to think you’ve gone and gotten attached.”

[fletchxr-blog]

vanityxburke:

The numerous pros of a Mundungus-free lifestyle came rushing back in the blink of an eye, another slight twitch of the lips threatening her detached expression as he took a jab at her work ethic. He wasn’t exactly wrong (her limitations on hard work could fill a room if she simply didn’t care enough about the task at hand, which, in this case, she didn’t), but the situation still demanded a certain level of offense on her end. It was the principle of the thing. And with an ever eloquent muttering of “piss off,” Emma reluctantly found herself following him to the ring toss booth, intent on getting the documents she’d paid him for.

Her gaze remained glacial while he picked out his rings, only barely acknowledging the gangly teen behind the stand in favor of watching Mundungus take his stance, skeptical eyes noting the angle of his arm and the distance between the pegs. Feigning interest, “Really? A carnie?” Then –

C l a n k.

An unimpressed brow shot up, watching the ring roll away in noisy defeat. It took a valiant effort to keep somewhat of a handle on her smugness. Tilting her head with a soft tut of disapproval, Emma held up a hand with two crossed fingers, adding tartly, “Here’s to that gene pool drying up, then.”

It was at his goading that Emma finally allowed herself a break in expression, the beginnings of a mirthless smile spreading thinly across her face. “That’s me! But I wouldn’t worry too much, Fletcher. You’re well on your way to embarrassing yourself enough for the both of us.”

“If you’re really the quidditch star from the posters…” interrupted the teen, who’d been staring at them dubiously for the past few minutes, as if trying to decide whether they were trying to pull a fast one on him. “Then what are you doing hanging around with a clown?”

Emma stifled a bitter laugh. “Beats me, Jarold.”

“It’s Harold—”

But she’d already stalked off, narrowly avoiding a small pile up of kids nearby that seemed to be headed in the direction of the game booths, calling out without looking back, “Send me those papers when you’re done being a prat, or I’ll call in a favor from Elias.”

Mundungus wanted to protest that any self-respecting thief (or in fact, Fletcher, which was practically one in the same) had no shame to begin with, so it’d be a cold day in hell before he felt any shade of embarrassment, but for once in his life his ever flapping tongue obeyed that tiny part of him that cared what Emma thought. They’d fought before, frequently in fact, but save for one unfortunate incident with that odd looking doll Caratacus was so fond of keeping around their fights had never stuck. 

Apparently there was a way to go before he dug himself out of the hole he’d entrenched himself in.

The stupid grin on Jarold(Harold)’s face as Emma turned to stalk away in a huff drawing Mundungus’s cheerful expression down to something considerably less pleasant. “You think that’s funny? Look at me like that and I’ll show you how we make them smile in Belfast, you understand? Give me that squid.”

He gestured with his fistful of rings at the largest and oddest of the collection of prizes, staring the kid down as his expression turned from a snigger to discomfort and then to the first glimmer of something Mundungus would happily recognise as fear as he stumbled back off his perch to snatch the stuffed purple squid off of the prize shelf and shove it across the booth at him. Mundungus seized it with a grim stare. “Pleasure doing business with you Jarold.”

Dropping the rings back onto the counter he turned, squinting through the sudden swarm of children in the direction Emma had disappeared to with a grimace as he tucked the stuffed squid beneath his arm, before slipping between the booths and away from the tiny menaces to chart a course of interception. Admittedly, assessing Emma’s level of irritation was a skill that Mundungus had been honing for quite some years now, one that he measured in the murmurs of the crowd and the prickling sensation at the back of his neck. He caught sight of the bounce of brown hair from afar, hastening his steps to circle around tent and plot his collision course right down to three, two, one and—

“Elias? You would send Mr. bloody Trig to steal from me? I shouldn’t leave you and gramps to your own devices in that store for too long. You’ve clearly lost your touch.”

He retrieved the squid from beneath his arm, tentacles drooping sadly and large vapid eyes fixed in her direction and extended it towards her delightedly, with a pointed little wiggle that seemed to insinuate she should take it. It wasn’t exactly a white flag of surrender but it was probably the closest he’d ever get to one. “If you want your bloody documents you only had to ask you know.” 

Pausing, he considered that sentence for a moment before amending, “Nicely. You could ask me nicely.”

The squid jiggled jauntily from side to side, tentacles swaying in midair. 

[fletchxr-blog]

dcdalusdiggle:

bounce house, festival grounds 13th february 1979 11:15am { @fletchxr }

The day so far had been an absolute disaster. Everything had gone tits up at the Ministry (although he wasn’t complaining about getting out of there) and now this. He was thirty-five years old for Christ’s sake - he should not be hiding away in a bounce house of all places. Choosing to attempt to hide at the festival was a poor idea on his behalf. He should have apparated somewhere else, somewhere the Ministry would be less likely to look. Perhaps he should have gone into the muggle world. He spend some of his travels amongst muggles, how hard could it have been to just spend a few days at the very least? just enough time to come up with a plan.

Sighing quietly, Dedalus sunk down to the floor of the structure, the vinyl rippling at the movement. He didn’t dare look at the window, fearful that he’d be spotted by an Auror. “Think we need to put some wards up?” He asked, looking over at his companion. He took his hat off, setting it down next to his outstretched legs with a soft sigh. They were definitely in a tight spot now.

“Where do we go from here?”

Admittedly, this wasn’t Mundungus’s finest moment.  Amidst a sea of eyes the size of dinner plates (bemused and intrigued by the two grown men who’d infiltrated their vinyl playground) he found the itch of captivity that had been crawling through his nerves all morning had been driven to a frenzy. The erratic drumming of his fingers and craning of his neck towards the entrance a fair indication that he was not, perhaps, at his very best.

“Wards,” he agreed, slithering down the vinyl to sink with a thump against the floor of the bounce room, the subsequent soft bouncing that tapered off to relative stillness ignored as he began the process of patting down his pockets in search of the one he’d stashed his wand inside. “At least a disillusionment charm or two.”

He glared in the direction of a particularly intrigued young boy who had stopped bouncing to stare at them. As was the case with most children, the boy didn’t take much notice of him. “Lay low,” he suggested, dragging his wand out of the depths of an extendable pocket and ignoring the jitter of his hands the best he cold, “Let all the fuss die down. I’m sure in a week or so—”

In a week or so their names would be plastered across the Prophets headlines with a dead Ministry workers face to boot. “—Everything’ll be just grand. You mind if I smoke?”

He was already rummaging for the carton anyway, fingers trembling as he fished the battered box out of his jacket pocket and made a shambles of trying to pry it open. 

[fletchxr-blog]

Are you a Weasel? Read about characteristics of Weasel personalities and take the quiz to find out what animal you are!

[crispyrealization]

Visit Original Link

[fletchxr-blog]

anecdotalprewett:

“There are lessons in this world that can be learned without physical pain, you know.” Molly retorted, keeping her eyes off of him for the time being. Her did her best to stay vigilant, to watch over her students, but it was difficult with this man lingering nearby. The term ‘pigeon’ sent a flare of annoyance up her spine, spreading heat to her ears, which were burning - she was sure - a distinct red. 

The clink of a coin in hand turned her head, a brow raising. Now he was just showing off, toying with her. “I am not a drunk.” She snapped, knowing the moment the words tumbled past her lips that they sounded far too defensive. She could ignore in her own mind that itch to slip away for a few moments, for a burn of liquor in her throat. The man was a con artist, she reminded herself. They were supposed to read people, to pick out their weak points. So she needed her weak points to not be so weak. 

“You look into spending a month organizing students, vendors, volunteers, animal wranglers–” Molly nodded pointedly at the irritable horses, “and then tell yourself to act cheerful about it, hm?”

“They aren’t the ones that stick though, are they?” Fence-palings dug into the grooves of his spine as he lent back into it, the pinch of wood digging into his arms as his elbows perched precariously atop it. For a moment his attention was snared by the burn of her ears, almost as vivid in shade as her hair, before it flitted onwards, ever searching for the next gleam of something shiny.  Remorse was a stranger that Mundungus had never fancied introducing himself to.

“Oh, to be sure,” he agreed with an amused bat of his eyes as his hands rose in his defense, fingers splayed and palms raised as if to extend his surrender, attention wandering to the crowds of students mixed in with the masses as he continued, “If I had to deal with that lot I’d turn to the bottle as well."

The joke curled at the corner of his lips as if the annoyance radiating off her had gone entirely undetected, attention devoted to the rummaging into the murky depths of his pockets amidst the loose change and stolen goods for the slosh of liquid and the cool touch of metal. He produced the flask with a flourish, beaming at a wide-eyed toddler who had stopped to stare at him in that eerie way that most children seemed to do (like they knew it made him uncomfortable) and twisting off the cap with a scrape of metal. “I’ve always found a great deal of cheer in the bottom of a bottle but I’ve been told that’s a part of being Irish.”

He offered the flask with a broad smile, “Go on then. I hear the horses like a girl who can hold her whisky.”

[earpwynonna]

[fletchxr-blog]

vanityxburke:

Admittedly, things had been a bit dull without Mundungus around. Quieter? Sure. Less of a headache? Oh, no doubt. But dull all the same. Her respite from gaudy shirts and bad jokes had so far only lasted a little over a week since he’d been banned from the shop and she’d stopped attending meetings at the Wyvern, yet the loss was deeply felt, and not just because Caractacus had taken to snapping at her in lieu of his favorite chew toy. Mundungus had worked his way into their lives like a vicious leech and try as they might, it was difficult to ignore the hole in their everyday routine left by his absence. Still, the list of things she’d rather do than tell him he’d been missed in any way, shape, or form ranged from walking on broken glass to tonguing a Dementor.

He was the one in the wrong here, not her, and no one would ever catch her saying otherwise. Emma knew better than to expect an apology from Mundungus Fletcher of all people, but that didn’t mean he deserved to get off easy, either. Not when he’d gone as far as to wound her pride.

“No thanks,” she answered coolly, face expressionless. “What you choose to wear is your own business. Besides…” her eyes narrowed pointedly at the half a clown costume and the smears of paint splashed across his face, “… there’s clearly no help for some people.”

It was only at the vague mention of the documents she’d paid him to steal that Emma began to show any real interest in their conversation beyond exasperation. The papers hadn’t been forgotten (in fact, there’d been an embarrassing incident just a few days back where she’d attempted to bribe Tiggy into snooping in Mundungus’ room for them that’d ended with the house elf throwing up on her shoes; something she’d never again acknowledge), and she considered him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not a stalemate was worth it, when he abruptly strolled over to a game booth, pockets clinking suspiciously. … Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.

At his question she gave him a long, flat look. “Can’t say that’s a surprise. You’re nothing if not one hell of a tosser,” Her lips pursed impatiently. “If you’ve something to give me just hand it over. I’ve got work to do and I’m sure there’s plenty of knick-knacks you’d rather be filching right about now.”

“That it is,” Mundungus agreed far too cheerfully in the face of her obvious distaste for his current apparel, a grubby hand smoothing across the patched material of his pants before pinging at the suspenders stretched across his chest, “And a surprisingly lucrative business at that. Who would have thought all those little spawn had something to offer life other than sticky-hands and snotty noses.”

His pockets jangled merrily as he wove his way in closer to the front of the ring toss with a pointed, “I prefer marvellous tosser,” over his shoulder before he turned back to eye up the sad display of prizes lined up behind the sour looking student who was supervising the booth. Impatiently wiggling his hand for the kid to hand over the set of rings he continued, “It has a much nicer ring to it. Oh don’t look so sour, Emma-Bee, anyone would think you’ve actually been doing any of the jobs they assigned you.” 

With an emphatic sigh the teen slowly heaved himself off the stool he’d perched on beneath the shade of the tent to shove a set of rings Mundungus’s way, gawking with unabashed interest between the pair of them and scratching at his neck. Mundungus, as he did with most people below the age of seventeen, ignored him with a certain level of discomfort in favour of tossing a ring deftly in one hand and beaming to himself as he caught it. “I think my dad might have been a carnie,” he mused absently to himself, forehead furrowing, before he threw the first ring.

It bounced off the back peg, rolling away to a loud snort from the teen behind the booth.

“Shut it,” Mundungus replied, rolling back his shoulders and shaking out his arms like he had clearly only missed because he hadn’t been limber enough and adding conversationally as he squinted at the boy’s name tag. “Jar— Jarry? Jarold?”

An indignant, “Harold,” went largely ignored.

“Jarold. You know who that is, don’t you?” Mundungus jerked his chin in the general direction of her radiating disapproval to a slow bob of the teen’s head, “See, Emma’s disqualified herself from carnival games and any kind of joy on account of her being boring and not wanting to lose to a clown.”

[fletchxr-blog]

tovjovrspur:

Narcissa tilted her head and listened – she had been wondering when she would hear complaints from the Knockturn Alley community concerning the Prophet’s recent interest. She stiffened slightly at the mention of Lucius, but kept her expression fixed apart from a slight tightening of her jaw. Once he had come to a conclusion, she leaned forward a bit in her chair and took a moment to collect her thoughts before responding.

“While I do understand your concerns about privacy, Alexander,” she started, “I’m afraid it can’t be helped. The very nature of the work done at the Prophet makes it nearly impossible not to step on a few toes, in our proceedings. You can rest assured, however, my journalists should be out of your hair by the end of next week, and the confidentialities of individual clients will not be breached. If you’d like to know more about the nature of their investigations, I’d be happy to send you a copy of the issue detailing their findings once it’s been published.”

She paused, clasping her hands in front of her and resting them on her desk. She lifted her chin before adding pointedly, “Additionally, I’m inclined to mention, my husband had no influence in the decisions made on account of the Prophet while he was alive, and he certainly has no say in them now.”

Admittedly, Mundungus had never given Narcissa Malfoy (or her predecessor, Narcissa Black) all that much consideration. At school she had been three years too young to be of much consequence and out of school a man like Mundungus Fletcher had never had much occasion to cross paths with people of Narcissa’s station. Alexander Borgin had a somewhat more varied social circle, but his was a skin better slipped into sparingly lest his face start making an impression. Narcissa, to him, had always been something of a novelty in the way that most of the sacred 28 with their penchant for flagrant displays of wealth (and strange fixations on albino peafowl) were entertaining but largely registered as walking, talking galleons. Lucius Malfoy had been one of the more ridiculous offenders in that regard.

Narcissa was a much more dangerous creature — and apparently he’d underestimated her. 

His lip quirked at the corner, head tilting ever so slightly as he sized her up. Whatever her reporters were doing in Knockturn Alley, he didn’t like the taste of it at all. A little of the polish flaked off with a reply of, “Well I didn’t spot any ouija boards on the way in,” too quick to catch between his teeth, instead his tongue resided there for a moment in the aftermath, smile this shade of wry as his posture rolled back, defeated in the less than gentlemanly perch he settled into.

Interest gleamed in his eyes, like he’d caught a glimpse of something shiny. “Admittedly I don’t know much about the publishing business,” he lent marginally forward, lowering his voice for dramatic effect, “But I do know business. I’m sure you can understand my concerns about certain stores that better deal in the shadows suddenly appearing in the Prophet’s headlines.”

His fingers rolled impulsively before he could still them. “What I’m asking, Mrs. Malfoy, is if Borgin & Burke’s has anything to be concerned about from this article?”   

[fletchxr-blog]

dcdalusdiggle:

“Okay, cool.” At least that was one challenge out of the way for Dedalus. Although he didn’t have a clue as to just how Mundungus would be going about acquiring customers - Dedalus figured that it was something he was probably better off not knowing. Having customers was the important thing - just how they ended up becoming customers wasn’t nearly quite as important.

He nodded as Mundungus spoke, listening intently. A week should be plenty of time to get things sorted on either end. He’d be able to sift through his stock for his best wands so far (AKA the ones that hadn’t landed him in St Mungo’s for few hours each) and potentially finish some more up. “I’ll drop by the Wyvern next Friday. I’ll run some numbers and see how cheap I can sell the wands for whilst still turning a profit so we both benefit.” Somehow Dedalus doubted that the buyers would be drowning in money if they were having to turn to alternative means to acquire wands.

“Yeah, yeah, just between us - you don’t have to worry about that. Likewise, Dung. Owl me or something if your potential buyers need more information.” He took a sip of drink. “Of course, don’t let me keep you. I’ll see you next week.”

He gave Dung a brief wave as he left, before signalling to Tom. “Hey, buddy, can I get another?”

end.