twist of fate

gordon avery • thirty • death eater "those who do not move do not notice their chains."

[gordonavery]

@goodgeon·

AS FAR AS PUBS GO, THE LEAKY CAULDRON IS … WELL.  The Leaky Cauldron presents its own series of opportunities : proximity to Diagon Alley, of course, being the primary one, along with the convenience of LANDMARK FAMILIARITY, a steady stream of interested customers, and the rather fit ginger usually found behind the bar.  But only RARELY do these positives outweigh the single, ponderous NEGATIVE : the Leaky Cauldron is rather disgusting, innit ?

Still, the drinks are cheap enough.  ( That’s tonight’s motivation, of course. )

DAVEY GUDGEON appears almost violently at - odds with the pub’s dingy decor, taking up their loudly NEON space in a way that clashes rather amusingly.  The private moment they’re enjoying with an elderflower wine, however, is ultimately interrupted by the same bar - mate who’s been steadily GRUMBLING TO HIMSELF since they’d sat down.  Remember what they’d said, about the Cauldron ?

❝ — — It MOST CERTAINLY IS. ❞  A look to their left necessitates a fully - invested turn of their head.  ❝ At least the pictures are nicer, right ? ❞

“Ah, yes, the pictures,” Gordon said conspiratorially, as though he and his companion were in on some dark secret. “Also, where else will I find out if I look better in cool tones or warm tones? Or what love potion I need to spice up my relationship? Certainly not in the Prophet.” He swallowed a large mouthful of whiskey, barely feeling the sting as it slid down his throat, before turning to the person who was seated beside him – and almost doing a double take. Gordon had never in his life seen someone so garish and so at peace with it, and he was certain that if he stared at the other’s outfit for long enough, he’d trigger a migraine or possibly a minor aneurism.

There was a certain level of envy that came with seeing someone so obviously comfortable in their own skin. Of course, Gordon wasn’t hiding anything – his brother had achieved a respectable marriage, and there was an unspoken understanding as to why Gordon hadn’t married as well, but no one ever spoke of it. So long as no one suspected in public, Gordon was free to behave as he pleased in private, and for the most part, that was good enough, but it was moments like this where he was abruptly and fully reminded that he was diminishing his quality of life because he’d never have the courage to be so bold or so open. He cleared his throat, pushing away the cloud of morose thoughts that seemed to be taking over his brain and taking another hefty sip of his drink. “Although I suppose Witch Weekly’s fashion tips might be a little reductive for someone such as yourself,” Gordon added, forcing an amused grin.

[gordonavery]

@elainediggory·

          Very rarely did Elaine find the time just to stop someplace for a drink, even now, perched on a stool in the midst of people heartily enjoying conversation with their drink of choice, she was lost in thought. The books of diagnosis’ and healer knowledge scattered around her doing little to illuminate a particularly worrying condition of one of her patients. She’d hoped that a change in scenery would do her good and the little pub offered a reprieve from the chaos of St. Mungo’s, as well as an excuse to stop in Diagon Alley and browse the shops until she found a small present for Cedric, and perhaps something for Amos. ( Unnecessary, she knew – but the long hours, the need for her to pull double shifts and then have to devote her attention to the Order of Artemis as well… it ate at her conscience. ) A voice drew her out of her mulling, calling to her attention that she must have been staring right at someone for a while now, but her sleep-addled brain hadn’t recognized it. “Oh – no, I was just thinking… and staring off into space – or rather, at you, it seems, you’ll have to excuse me. But now that you mention it, I could do with a glance, thank you.” Taking the offered paper, she thumbed through it – attempting desperately to avoid the lists of the injured, the recently murdered. A dry chuckle left her lips at the added comment of the man. “Well, I get enough of that – can’t say I need to read about it too.”

         Certainly, a publication like the Prophet didn’t do the war credit, but then again, Elaine wasn’t sure anything could. What they saw at St. Mungo’s terrified her, indescribable evils and monstrosities built up upon centuries of perpetuated ignorance. No matter what people said, the war was far from over – ideas didn’t die with leaders, they lived on, brought about new ones in their place, and if they couldn’t decimate the ideals themselves, they’d run through generations unchecked. “Luckily for me, I just wanted to see if they’ve got one of those comic spreads, my son loves watching the drawings move.” Magic was still a newfound delight to him, even the ordinary so riveting that Elaine often found herself reminded to appreciate the mundane and see life through the eyes of someone far less world-weary than herself. Muttered words made her glance up from skimming through the printed pages, catching the flicker of pain that crossed over the man’s features. “Are you alright?” The question came instinctively, before Elaine could bite her tongue and think better of it. “–Sorry, I know you probably came here for the drinks and some peace, but… call it a healer’s obligation to ask.”

Gordon had always envied the effortlessly social and instantly charming – he’d never been a good conversationalist, not with his mind slipping in and out of the present as though he was listening to a record that wouldn’t top skipping. It was a skill most people took for granted that Gordon simply had never acquired. The only person he felt really, truly at ease with was Tom, and that thought in itself sent a shudder of emotion through him because who knew if he’d ever have that again? This woman, kind and friendly as she was, only served to rub salt in the wound of his inadequacy. “Your son’s very lucky,” he said, somber and absentminded, because, well, that’s what people said, didn’t they? Gordon started, however, as her questions became more probing, guard flying up immediately. This, he thought vaguely, was the problem with drinking in public. He forgot how people love to watch and observe, and he forgot how bad it could be if he found himself seized with a vision in the middle of a crowded pub. But there were only so many nights he could spend alone, wandering around the Avery Estate like some pathetic ghost, haunting himself more than anyone else.

“I’d tell you I’m fine,” he said with a bare grin, “but I have a feeling you’d know I was lying.” Gordon had no interest in involving a healer with his issues. They were so clinical in their diagnoses – identify the problem and then eliminate it. However, if they were to eliminate Gordon’s problems, they would also be stripping him of his value, of his purpose, and leaving him trapped in the present, in reality, with no escape hatch. As much as he was suffering because of his visions, he couldn’t think of anything as horrifying as being ordinary. “Perhaps you can settle this one for me,” he said, struck by a sudden thought, sitting up straighter in his chair. “A friend of mine, excellent potion maker, phenomenal wizard, seems to think that there’s no way to retrieve memories once they’re lost. I’m inclined to disagree with him, but I also barely managed to scrape As in Charms and Potions while I was at Hogwarts, so perhaps I’m just being naive.” He watched her with interest, cocking his head to one side as he waited for her to respond.

[gordonavery]

@marymcdcnald·

Mary needed a drink.

It wasn’t a general mindset she found herself in, not a standard vice of hers ( hardly unknown, but also infrequent enough to be a an aberration from the norm; threw herself into the occassional wild night out with the team only a few times a year ), but today? Today she needs… something to get her mind off things. ( Never drink when you need it, Owen’s voice sounds in her head, enough to pause her for a minute and add a faint flush of guilt to her cheeks as she ignores her step-father. )

Today, from an outside perspective hadn’t been anything on the scale that should drive someone to drink; just a pleasant family picnic, light conversation. The problem wasn’t the day itself but the sheer effort it had taken just to appear okay when she was anything but. She hasn’t told Mum yet, or Owen. Doesn’t know that she can tell them, doesn’t know that she should ( they would want her to, she knows, but it would break both their hearts and how could she do that to them? They would blame themselves for not protecting her, like they had at school. No. Better she bear this alone than weigh them down under it. They must never know what she had become, what she’d done, what had been done to her. ). If it was this difficult to pretend to be alright, how was she ever supposed to live a life at all?

She didn’t have any answer to that apart from her presence here.

She’s not intending company, but she pauses still when she spots him. Only a few memories, fragments maybe, and she can’t tell if she’s only seen him a few times or if other parts are missing. There’s enough though, a memory of his disorientation, to think he knows and maybe he has a way to deal with it better and a yearning need of he might be able to understand. It’s reckless, it’s stupid, it’s a sodding-arse terrible idea all around. His friend had given her the scar she bore, mudblood carved into her arm until the day she died; another of his friends ( maybe him? No, his voice is wrong for it ) had stolen her mind. ( Does he know she’s free? Is she still a puppet on its strings to him, with all the free will of a block of wood? )

The very last thing she should be doing is sliding onto the stool beside him, heart beating in her chest like a rabbit before the wolf, but need won over sense and here they were. His response, so bloody mundane, catches her by surprise and she rather blankly stares down at the Prophet in front of her, struggling to find something on it to save her from impending dumbness as the words and questions that had sat at the front of her mind on first sight beat a rapid retreat from her mind.

❝ The tosser got it wrong, too. ❞ she manages, once the printed words in front of her connect to something that made sense to her. ( Does her voice shake? It feels like it must be, the way her chest is racing. She tries to calm it. ) ❝ Three down — Ireland’s seeker in the 1967 world cup. It should be Delaney, no O’nally. O’nally never played for Ireland, just the Kestrels. Everyone knows that. ❞

Gordon snapped his head around at the sound of her voice – it was a knee jerk reaction, one that he couldn’t control even if he tried because he was on his third drink, and his heartbeat was suddenly very loud, the rushing of blood in his ears drowning out what she was saying, but that hardly mattered. Mary Macdonald was here, sitting next to him, speaking to him, and he felt like he’d been sucker punched. He had no way of knowing what Mary he was speaking to – the real one, or the one they’d carved her into – but either way, he was left unnerved and completely blindsided. He should’ve excuse himself and go tell Lucius that he’d seen her, or he should’ve wrangled her and brought her back to Malfoy Manor, but he found himself incapable of doing either. Instead, Gordon just stared at Mary, rooted to the spot.

She looked – he didn’t know. There was some color in her cheeks that he hadn’t seen before, but there was also a hollowness in her eyes, and there was no way for him to separate his guilt over what they’d done to her from his relief that she was alright. When he was young, Tom had once said to him, difficult things are sometimes the most necessary. It was easy to believe those sorts of things when you didn’t see the havoc you left behind, but Mary was one walking, talking casualty in someone else’s war. “You’re here.” he said lamely. “I wasn’t expecting– although, I suppose that’s foolish on my part, it’s the Leaky bloody Cauldron, of course you’d come here.” But then, Gordon felt his face flush because he didn’t know Mary at all. Maybe this was her first time at the pub, maybe it was her favorite spot – he simply had no idea. There was an awkwardness that he couldn’t escape with her because he knew what had happened to her. Perhaps this is how he made people feel after his visions – they knew what Gordon had witnessed, but he was still woefully, painfully in the dark. Unable to stomach the discomfort, he downed the rest of his drink and felt a swell of relief when the bartender astutely filled his glass without missing a beat. “Do you...know who I am?” he asked haltingly, eyes fixed on her face, watching for some sort of reaction. “It’s fine if you don’t,” he added. “I’m not– this isn’t meant to be difficult. I just wanted to know. If you knew.”

[gordonavery]

Location: The Leaky Cauldron Date: October 14th, 1979

Gordon nursed a double whiskey as he flipped listlessly through the Prophet. There wasn’t much of interest in the paper, which was to be expected. He rarely even bothered with the news because he didn’t need to rely on something so primitive and so inaccurate as a daily newspaper, but it had been in front of him, and he welcomed any distraction from the dull throbbing of his head. The only thing of interest was the article about Crouch, but even that, he struggled to take seriously because Rita Skeeter would do anything for a byline, including over exaggerations and straight up mutations of fact. He finished off his drink and signaled the bartender for another – perhaps, he should have called upon Severus for a fresh batch of potions, but he wasn’t ready to confess to the alarming rate at which he’d torn through them, leaving him vulnerable and empty handed, with more muggle methods to numb the aftershocks of his vision. Crass, yes, but that didn’t diminish their effectiveness.

He felt eyes on him, and he glanced over at the person on the stool next to him. “Oh – were you waiting for this?” he asked, holding up the Prophet. He folded it up without much care and handed it over, glad to be rid of the thing. “You’re not missing much. Mostly the usual – disappearances, death, and all things depressing,” Gordon said candidly, pulling his freshly-topped-off drink towards himself and taking a hefty sip. “Someone already did the crossword too, which is a shame.” Gordon hated most word games and puzzles, actually – they always made him feel slow and grossly undereducated. But it seemed like the thing to say. “Witch Weekly, now that’s a publication,” he muttered, mostly to himself, grimacing as a particularly sharp spasm of pain went from his forehead to the base of his skull.

[gordonavery]

dolohv‌:

Gordon gave a howl of pain, but Antonin could hardly bring himself to care. He was losing the vision, his mind clearing and he couldn’t have that. The seer’s hands were grasping at his arms, with something akin to excitement, but Antonin couldn’t unravel the motivations quick enough before they slackened. He was coming to, slowly -so fucking slowly- but surely, and anxiety rattled in his bones as he realized there would soon be no hope of finding out more.

The man was shaking himself next, causing a furrow to form between Antonin’s brows. He shouldn’t do that. He was scattering his thoughts and visions, when they were so loose already. Frustration bubbled up in Antonin’s chest as he watched the effortful lines crease the man’s face, the concerted effort it took to form his words.

With the man’s question, the hope that had occupied Antonin’s mind sputtered out, and in its absence, an roiling fury flooded in, swelling in his chest and setting his skull on fire. His knuckles were white against the collar, his neck beginning to flush as the heat in his gut rose and rose. Completely useless. Eyes still trained on Gordon, his nostrils flared, and he could swear there was the scent of brimstone. How could he have no idea what had happened? How could such power fill him up and use him like a marionette, then vanish without a ghost of the information it had imparted. 

The man’s next question stalled Antonin’s anger, pausing the flames that licked up his ribcage and reached for his teeth. He’s alive.  Maybe he would be of some use after all. “How do you know he is alive?” his voice a harsh whisper, carrying in stark contrast to the volume of Gordon’s, “Explain.”

A hand beckoned, long fingers white as bone curling around his chin, easing him back into the throes of prophecy. But there was nothing left – only darkness, only blankness, and even Tom couldn’t lead him back to the light. Gordon was alone here, floating through the present and the future, existing in a space where the two folded together and became one in the same. HOW DO YOU KNOW HE’S ALIVE? The whisper seemed so loud, so forceful, and Gordon flinched at the ferocity behind the words. EXPLAIN. How could he? He was a seer, but he knew nothing. He’d seen the future, and yet he had nothing to offer.

Gordon felt a jolt of clarity as Antonin’s grip tightened on his collar, the material of his shirt digging into his neck. He struggled for words, knowing that Antonin wouldn’t be satisfied easily, knowing that he needed to take advantage of whatever lucidity he could scrounge together in order to impress upon the other man just how significant this was. “I’ve seen the end, and it’s not this,” he said quickly, anxiously, his cadence picking up speed. “Don’t ask me to tell you what it is – I don’t remember. I never do. But if this was the end, if Dumbledore had been the end, I would have already known. I would have already seen it.” He paused, brow furrowing, lips pressing together. No, he wasn’t making sense, not even to himself. What was he saying? What did he mean?

He could still feel Tom. That’s what he meant. If Tom was dead, then Gordon would know. It would have been like switching off a faucet, like a river running dry. Gordon would be painfully and acutely trapped in this reality, in the present, never able to slide forward and backwards like a rag doll being tossed through time and space. “He’s alive,” Gordon said, voice straining with effort, “because I still have my Sight. Without him, there’s nothing for me to see. Without him, I have no visions.”

Of course, there was the off chance that he was wrong – the future was unchanging and immutable, and the Seers of the world simply existed to interpret what was already decided. But Gordon would never admit to such weakness. He was only useful to the Death Eaters, to Tom, if his words were infallible. But still, nonetheless, that fear, that uncertainty, began coiling around his throat like a vice. “He’s alive,” Gordon repeated, desperation pitching his voice higher and making it wobble with emotion. “He has to be.” He couldn’t even entertain the idea of a world where he lived and Tom did not. Not only was reality backwards, twisted, warped in all of the wrong ways if that was the case, Gordon had no intention of continuing to exist when his very purpose for being had met its end. “There’s no point to us,” to me,”if he’s gone.”

[dolohv]

Date: October 8th, 1979 Location: Death Eater Headquarters With: @gordonavery​

‘You hear a slow, rattling breath before Gordon speaks, a sign that his voice is no longer his own - - -’

- - - and then the voice was gone.

Antonin swept across the room, heartbeat hammering against his eardrums and drowning out the sound of his footfalls. The next moment, his fists had caught the collar of Gordon’s shirt and pushed him against the back of his seat, eyes ablaze with a vicious hunger he rarely felt.

It was one of those visions, a powerful one it seemed - almost pulling the very essence of Gordon fucking Avery out of his body as it rushed out. But maybe he could catch it - grasp at the wisps of whatever forces had welled up inside the man and made him speak. It was frustrating - maddening even, that the most useful thing to surface since the Dark Lord’s battle came from an unreliable prophet. 

“Keep talking, Avery. Keep fucking talking,” he hissed, face mere centimetres from the other’s, eyes growing wild with every passing second. He could almost feel it slipping away - the knowledge, the hope. He needed to know more - this wasn’t enough. His grip tightened against fabric, fingers itching to let go only so they could wrap around the man’s neck and squeeze out whatever drops remained of the words he spoke. “What use are you if you only speak in riddles??”

[gordonavery]

It was nothing like waking from a dream. It was like being born, howling and screaming, forcing your way back into the world. It was painful, it was bloody, and it was all too sudden, like you were falling towards the floor at breakneck speed and suddenly you were back in reality. It was like apparating for the first time, the suddenness and chaos of it all, but you never got used to it. Each time was like the first time, but you were older, and coming back to reality was harder. At first, it felt like being pushed back onto a carpeted floor – now, it feels like being slammed into asphalt.

Gordon’s eyes flew open, and he cried out, half in the sheer, splitting agony of it all, half because he was being thrust backwards, the collar of his shirt digging into his throat. It was a man, and his first thought, his first instinct was Tom. Gordon reached blindly for him, relief flooding through him, filling the void of grief that had grown within him like an all consuming pit. Tom was back, Tom was here, Tom was alive.

But then he heard the man’s voice. It was the accent, slight but present, that gave him away, and Gordon felt himself falter – it was Dolohov, his mind hazily reminded him, not the Dark Lord. He could taste the disappointment in his mouth like spoiled milk, curdling on his tongue. He tried to get his vision to focus, but his head, god, his head – there was something to be said about fading back into it, about loosening his grip on reality and falling back into the future. It was like diving into a lake with no bottom, where you would never run out of oxygen, and you could go deeper and deeper until there was just nothing.

Gordon shook himself, feeling how close Dolohov’s hand was to his throat and the claustrophobia that came with it. He needed to be present, he needed to know. It was with great, concentrated effort that he forced out the words – “Is the Dark Lord safe? Is he back?” Tom was all he ever saw, all he would ever see when he went to that place, and if his visions weren’t gone, if his abilities were strong as they’d ever been, that meant there was more to the story, more for him to uncover. If he could still see Tom’s future, then Tom wasn’t dead. He grabbed Antonin’s arm, shaking him roughly, using what strength he could muster to shout, “I know he’s alive. Where is he?”

[gordonavery]

( @lucius-abraxas-malfoy​ )

Location: Death Eater HQ (Malfoy Manor) Date: October 9th, 1979

Gordon pushed his food around listlessly, his appetite nonexistent, but all the while knowing he had to eat. The Malfoys’ hospitality was welcome, as always, and he picked at a loaf of bread as their house elf watched him carefully, waiting for him to either eat or ask for something else. Gordon offered the elf a tight smile as he tore off a chunk of bread, forcing himself to eat it. “Thank you,” he said politely. “The food is excellent.” The elf didn’t seem convinced, but knew a dismissal when it was given. Once left alone, Gordon sagged in the chair, pushing the plate away from him, even the smell of the braised lamb and roasted vegetables making his stomach flip. He dug around in his pockets for some semblance of relief – a potion for his migraines, a draught to replenish his strength – and came up short handed. Gordon needed to get home soon. This would only get worse, and the last people he wanted to see him at his weakest were Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

As if the mere thought of him conjured the man into existence, Lucius entered the dining room, dressed immaculately as always after a long day at the Ministry. Gordon immediately sat up a little straighter and forced himself to take another bite of food. “Had I known you’d be home, I would have waited for you,” he said apologetically, polite as ever. He was their guest, after all. “My apologies, Lucius, I meant no disrespect.” His hand trembled as he lifted his goblet, washing down the arduous mouthful with, thankfully, a heavy gulp of red wine. Probably not the best for him at the current moment, but he desperately needed something to take the edge off. “Was everything business as usual? At the Ministry, I mean, given Dumbledore’s funeral.” It was a tactic he’d become very accustom to – people loved to talk if they were given the platform, and Gordon more often than not was happy to give off the illusion of listening while he navigated the depths of his own mind. Despite his own curiosity about the matter, today was no different.

[gordonavery]

( @andsuit )

October 10th. Avery Estate.

With a small pop, Dorcas was in the Avery sitting room, hands in pockets, a gloomy expression about her face. Thirteen days. Thirteen days and she hadn’t gotten any distance past the break up, she’s pretty sure her circle of friends on the muggle side were tired of her moping about. Maybe they weren’t. Truth be told, Dorcas had no idea, she just…. needed someone else. Somebody to just be there for her.

Seeing Greta walk into the room, the witch displayed an unconvincing smile,    “ Evening Greta. Could you tell Gordon I’m here? – I’m sorry to just show up out of the blue I just … Could you get Gordon? ”     As she spoke, the facade of a smile broke down into an scrunched up expression.

Sure, Gordon wasn’t the best of listeners at times, but Dorcas wasn’t looking for anyone to analyze every word she said, she just —she needed a friend. She didn’t have it in her to be a tree in a forest with no one around that night. Eyes flicked around the posh sitting room, hands still shoved in pockets per her typical posture, a few moments suspended in a stand before Dorcas gave in. She collapsed onto the couch, hand wringing the back of her neck as she waited for the old friend to show.    /    @gordonavery

Gordon had somehow found it in him to get himself back home after close to thirty-six hours of trying to regain his strength in the Malfoy’s guest room. Greta had to come and fetch him, as he would only truly be comfortable within the confines of his own home, where he had everything necessary to combat the aftermath of his visions. It was useless for him to try and nap, useless for him to try and do anything but grit his teeth and get through it, so when the elf came back upstairs, mere hours later, with news that he had a visitor, he was in half a mind to tell her to send them away.

But then, of course, Greta told him it was Dorcas, and he softened immediately. No matter how horrible he felt, no matter how confused he was about everything going on with the Death Eaters, he couldn’t find the selfishness and cruelty within him to turn away a friend. What’s more, he thought with a sharp pang in his chest, he no longer had to worry about Dorcas’ surprise visits overlapping with Tom’s.

“There’s a set of vials in the kitchen,” he murmured to the elf, “Severus left them here last time he visited. Near his cauldron. Fetch them for me, please.” Greta nodded, her absence and return both punctuated with soft pops. She handed Gordon the flasks – a calming draught, a replenishing potion, a strengthening solution, and an invigorating draught. He threw them all back one after the other after the other, and to his relief, felt as close to normal as he could feel right now. He knew, in the back of his mind, that those potions were meant to last him the week, and he should have tried to pace himself, but he didn’t want Dorcas to see him in such a fragile state – the last thing he wanted her to do was worry.

He made his way down the stairs and into the sitting room, smiling fondly at the sight of her. Certainly, the potions were doing their work, but there was something to be said for the reinvigorating nature of seeing an old friend. “To what do I owe this wonderful surprise?” he asked with a smile, throwing an arm around her shoulders and puling her into his side to give her a gentle squeeze. “Or did we make plans and have I just forgotten?” Wouldn’t be the first time things like this slipped through Gordon’s memory like water. “It’s good to see you,” he said, surprisingly heartfelt. She looked sad, he noted, something in her eyes, but outside of that, she looked well. Healthy. Alive. Given the uncertainty of their current situation, all of that, in itself, was a blessing.

[gordonavery]

( @severedprince )

Having been recently and rudely awakened by a screeching hoot outside his flat, Severus palmed the note - in Gordon Avery’s familiar scrawl - before sending the offending owl back out the window into the dark, hazy sky. With his free hand, he rubbed his eyes blearily as he read the message. It was the middle of the night, for Merlin’s sake. He ran a hand through his messy hair, with a sigh, unable to ignore the tangible desperation evident in the note.  Shuffling across the room in the moonlight, he began rummaging through his ingredient cupboards to grab whatever might be useful and shove it in his bag. After pulling on a rumpled sweatshirt and swapping his nightclothes for a real pair of trousers, he glanced around the single room of his flat once more before apparating over to Gordon’s. 

He was still shaking off the last vestiges of sleep when the tiny house elf ushered him inside the house and down the hall towards the bathroom. There lay Gordon against the porcelain, looking like the aftermath of a disaster - much like he usually did whenever he contacted Severus for assistance. Which had been happening at a distinctly more accelerated rate than one might consider healthy. Severus frowned. “You look a mess,” he noted candidly as Gordon attempted to stagger upright. “More than usual.”

When Gordon clasped him on the shoulder and thanked him - his voice was so earnest, how did he manage to sound like that? - Severus nodded shortly, visibly uncomfortable with the thanks. It was his job, after all, to serve the others in this capacity. Though he had to admit that even if it wasn’t, he would have come at Gordon’s request anyway. He had seen firsthand what the older man was forced to suffer through almost constantly at no choice of his own. “Seemed prudent to come now rather than in the morning.” It’d been a rough few days, he’d said. Severus had known that Gordon had revealed a prophecy, on the night of Dumbledore’s memorial - he’d seen the frenzied aftermath of it as well, though Severus still hadn’t managed to piece together what it had actually been about. But ‘rough few days’ was probably an understatement, especially if Gordon hadn’t called him until now. Maybe he’d been working through potions he’d stored up - Severus could only hope so, rather than imagining him in this sort of state for the past few days. 

He stepped aside from the doorway to allow Gordon out of the bathroom, intending to follow the man wherever he was headed. He could set up his equipment anywhere in the house, but it would be more helpful if he could do so next to Gordon so he could answer any particulars that might arise. In fact, he’d already left one of his better cauldrons here, in the closet near the kitchen, so he wouldn’t have to keep relying on his obnoxiously unreliable collapsible one (he doubted anyone even noticed it was there, other than perhaps the house elf). “What is it this time? Sleep? Something for your migraines?” he listed off the usual options.

Gordon’s destination was the drawing room – the windows were angled so that even with the curtains fully opened, the room never got too bright, and with the curtains closed, it could get nearly pitch black even in the middle of a summer’s day. There was a large sofa – Gordon, Mother had this imported from ITALY, his older brother had once scolded him when he was very little and Gordon’d put his dirty feet up on the cushions. Thankfully, Gordon had the house almost exclusively to himself now that his mother and brother had vacated for a more lavish, expensive manor, to accommodate for his sister-in-law’s taste in opulence. He swung open the door to the room with significant effort and then collapsed onto the couch, squeezing his eyes shut and taking long, deep breaths as he tried to white-knuckle his way through the pain and the dizziness. A faint voice in the back of his brain gently reminded him that Severus was here. Severus would make it all go away.

“It’s all bad,” he said vaguely, the overwhelming nature of it all making his tongue looser than it should have been. But he trusted Severus – how could he not? The other man had seen him in more vulnerable, compromising positions than either of them could count. “I can’t– see anything. It doesn’t make sense. There’s just...nothing.” Even as he tried to conjure up Tom’s face behind his lids, he couldn’t. It had been a week or so since Tom had disappeared, and yet, the sharpness and clarity with which Gordon could always remember him had started to fade, leaving a pit in his stomach, and the fact that he couldn’t even latch onto Tom in this vision had left him feeling disoriented and very confused. “Severus,” he said as he opened his eyes, reaching out for the other and clutching his forearm tightly. “I need to remember, but I don’t know how.” Naively, Gordon hoped there was some spell, some potion the other knew that could just bring back what he was missing, that could wipe away the fog of his memory and give some clarity to what he’d said on Monday. His words were going to inspire people to do something, he could feel it, and it terrified him. His visions were meant for Tom and Tom alone – everyone else would see what they liked in the future, not what was true, and Gordon refused to be responsible for the chaos that was sure to ensue.

“Did you hear anything?” he asked quietly, scouring Severus’ face for answers. “Anything at all?”

[gordonavery]

( @severedprince​ )

Location: The Avery Estate Date: October 12, 1979

Gordon sat on the bathroom floor, curled around the toilet, breathing heavily as the nausea passed. His migraines were horrendous, but they were somehow the least of his problems. He felt strangely cut off from the world, from the future, from the source of his powers. Normally, Gordon could pull flashes of his visions from the recesses of his mind, even if he couldn’t pull the whole thing, the whole terrible truth, but this time, there was just blank numbness occupying the space of Monday night in his memory. It wasn’t the first time he’d lost so much time, but that didn’t make it any less unsettling.

Perhaps, if he could find a way to sleep, find a way to dive into the deep-end of his subconscious, he could find some answers. Perhaps, this was merely him justifying his dependence on a cocktail of different potions to keep himself functional. It had been years since he’d been able to get through the day without some sort of assistance – potions for his migraines, potions for sleep, potions for clarity, potions for numbness, all meant to give him some semblance of a normal life. All meant to hide his deterioration from Tom. Well, he thought, a pang of grief twisting in his chest, that’s no longer necessary.

As if from far away, he heard footsteps in the hall, the squeaky voice of Greta, his House Elf, murmuring, “Master Avery has been expecting you, Sir.” Gordon barely registered the words until the bathroom door swung open and he was squinting up at the wiry frame of Severus Snape. Gordon instantly felt something inside of him relax, the heady feeling of relief spreading through him. Vaguely, he remembered sending Severus a hasty owl in the middle of the night – come as soon as you can. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand this. It wasn’t the first time that he’d asked for Severus in the wake of a prophecy, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Gordon staggered upright, leaning heavily on the sink. “Severus,” he said breathlessly, voice full of gratitude. He was glad, in a distant, removed sort of way, that it was Severus he relied on, not someone else. Severus was smart, direct, and astute, and while others (read, Bellatrix) in their fold mistrusted and disliked him, Gordon found him to be oddly charming. “If you need anything, tell Greta,” he said, indicating his Elf. “She’ll fetch whatever you ask, just give her a list.” He unhitched himself from the sink, using the wall to guide himself out of the bathroom. He stopped in front of Severus, clapping a hand on his shoulder and speaking earnestly as he said, “Thank you for coming. It’s been– a rough few days, to say the least.”

[gordonavery]

( @pettigrewwhiskers​ )

Location: Death Eater HQ (Malfoy Manor) Date: October 10, 1979

Gordon Avery had seen better days.

Time had only reduced his resilience to the strain that his abilities put on his mind and his body, and what used to be a recovery period of a few hours now spanned days. He supposed  he could have just had someone help him floo to his own home, where he had all of his potions and his pills, ready to sedate him to the harsh, blinding light of reality, but even the thought of doing that depleted him of all his energy. So, he waited it out in Malfoy Manor, curled under a blanket, head throbbing endlessly, as he passed in and out of consciousness.

Vaguely, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Gordon knew he needed to get someone to tell him what he’d said was going to come to pass. It was the first vision he’d had since Tom “died”, and that felt significant, that felt important. However, he trusted none of the people who had heard it to tell him the truth – he’d accidentally and unwillingly given them information, information above their station, information that could be translated into power. And yet, even though they were his words and his powers manifest, he was left weakest of them all.

Gordon was just working up the strength to sit up, as he felt nausea swirling around within him, when he heard footsteps – the sound of someone entering the room. Quiet, careful steps, someone courteous enough that they were trying to avoid “waking” him. But, of course, Gordon wasn’t asleep. Giving a prophecy seemed to electrify his mind, and he couldn’t find rest without the help of a sleeping potion as close to deadly as he could get it.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” Gordon said, voice rough. “I’m awake.” He peeled his eyes open and was surprised to see – “Pettigrew?” He struggled to lift himself up slightly, not wanting the younger boy, the spy, to see the true extent of his fragility right now. “Back so soon? I’m afraid Monday night’s show was a one-night-only sort of performance, so if you’re back for more, you’re wasting your time.” Gordon took advantage of his fleeting lucidity to really appraise the other, watching for Peter’s reaction to the mention of his prophecy with sharp scrutiny.

[gordonavery]

Gordon Eldritch Avery

TRAITS + DETAILS.

PLACE IN SOCIETY

♦ Financial : wealthy / moderate / poor / in poverty. ♦ Medical : fit / moderate / sickly / disabled / disadvantaged. ♦ Class or Caste : upper / middle / working / slave / unsure. ♦ Education : qualified / unqualified / studying. ♦ Criminal Record : yes / yes, for minor crimes  / no / has aided / committed (major) crimes but not caught yet / committed (minor) crimes but not caught yet

FAMILY

♦ Marital status : married - happily / married - unhappily / engaged or betrothed / partnered / single / divorced / separated / widowed or widower ♦ Children : has a child or children / has no children / wants children ♦ Relationship with Family : close with sibling(s) / not close with sibling(s) / has no ( blood ) siblings / sibling is deceased ♦ Affiliation : orphaned / adopted / disowned / raised by birth parent

TRAITS + TENDENCIES

♦ extroverted / introverted / in between ♦ disorganized / organized / in between ♦ close-minded / open-minded / in between ♦ calm / anxious / in between ♦ disagreeable / agreeable / in between ♦ cautious / reckless / in between ♦ patient / impatient / in between ♦ outspoken / reserved / in between ♦ leader / follower / in between ♦ empathetic / apathetic / in between ♦ optimistic / pessimistic / in between ♦ traditional / modern (albeit secretly) / in between ♦ hard-working / lazy / in between ♦ cultured / uncultured / in between ♦ loyal / disloyal / unknown ♦ faithful / unfaithful / in between

BELIEFS

♦ Faith : monotheist (anglican) / polytheist / atheist / agnostic / agnostic pantheist / nontheistic ♦ Belief in Ghosts or Spirits : yes / no / don’t know / don’t care ♦ Belief in an Afterlife : yes / no / don’t know / don’t care ♦ Belief in Reincarnation : yes / no / don’t know / don’t care ♦ Belief in Aliens : yes / no / don’t know / don’t care ♦ Philosophical : yes / no

SEXUALITY & ROMANTIC INCLINATION

♦ Sexuality : heterosexual / homosexual / bisexual / asexual / pansexual / demisexual ♦ Sex : sex repulsed / sex neutral / sex favorable ♦ Romance : romance repulsed / romance neutral / romance favorable / romance dependent ♦ Sexually : adventurous / experienced / naive / inexperienced / curious ♦ Potential Sexual Partners : male / female / agender / other / none / all ♦ Potential Romantic Partners : male / female / agender / other / none / all

ABILITIES

♦ Combat Skills : excellent / good / moderate / poor / none ♦ Literacy Skills : excellent / good / moderate / poor / none ♦ Artistic Skills : excellent / good / moderate / poor / none ♦ Technical Skills : excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

HABITS

♦ Drinking Alcohol : never / sometimes / frequently / to excess ♦ Smoking : trying to quit / never / sometimes / frequently / to excess ♦ Other Narcotics : never / sometimes / frequently / to excess ♦ Medicinal Drugs : never / sometimes / frequently / to excess ♦ Indulgent Food : never / sometimes / frequently / to excess ♦ Splurge Spending : never / sometimes / frequently / to excess ♦ Gambling : never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

[venomandashesrp-deactivated2019]

name: gordon avery allegiance: death eaters blood status: pureblood birthdate: july 24th, 1949 availability: taken notes: is a seer

pensieve: trigger warning for murder references and possible dissociation 

you are six the first time your words are recorded in the hall of prophecy. you are not the youngest whose words reside there, but your father is pleased nonetheless, and the favour that had fallen on your brother now falls on you. it is enough that you welcome the visions, though they terrify you, both the things you see and the way you lose yourself in them, tethered to your body by only the finest and most delicate of threads, so easy to snap.

when you are twelve, your father hosts the dark lord and you run to him, laughing and delighted because his face has floated in front of your eyes a dozen times. you know him, this tom riddle, dark and beautiful and so very, very important. there is a solidity to him that many lack to you, with their flittering, changing life lines; but he is the same in any number of worlds, a stable point around which you can build.

you call him by his name and for a moment you know fear of him, before his gaze turns sharp and cunning, covetous; a look your father has turned on you often since your gifts appeared. he guides you, sculpts you to his needs and you know the honour of it, to have this man’s attentions, without your father telling you.

he asks you to kill and you do (what is a life worth when you can see past the veil of time to a place it no longer exists, what does it matter when they are but flickering, sickly lights besides the everburning flame of your master). he keeps you close, as you get older, and you find your spot at his side, a step behind and to the left.

you walk the mists of the future for your dark lord, his existence a stable anchor in a world that seems almost ephemeral to your eyes.

established connections: slug club (member), class of 1960-67 (slytherin) gordon avery is portrayed by ben barnes and played by tara. biography and additional information beneath the cut. 

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