𝖚𝖓𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖑𝖊𝖉, 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖔𝖓𝖊. @lcstlaugh - Tumblr Blog

BLAISE ZABINI:

𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖘𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖋 𝖆 butterfly , an extrovert , particularly in that he thrived in large crowds . it was like there was a switch inside him , something inherent , that flipped on in the face of large gatherings and shrouded him in all the social graces that his mother had drilled into his head . a public event such as this one was not much different than the intimate get-togethers of the pureblood circles , even if it lacked some of the nuances . his mind quickly retracts the thought , however , when dark eyes land on a familiar figure across the pub . sometimes the pureblood nuances never stop .

❝ it really is a day of good fortune . the fairer nott sibling , blessing us with her presence ? lady luck must be smiling down on us , ❞ blaise calls out , voice lilting as he slips into the seat next to giselle , ease in his every countenance and a cocky grin on his face . he gleefully takes to the manners that a good pureblood boy like him are expected to present , as if she doesnʻt already know him by now . ❝ mind if i buy you a drink ? to help welcome the spring season , of course . it feels like poor taste to not buy a beautiful woman a drink . ❞ he dimples at one of his best friendʻs sisters and hopes that theo hears about this .

【 𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖜𝖑 𝖋𝖔𝖗 : 𝖌𝖎𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖙 ( @lcstlaugh ) 】

𝔦𝔱'𝔰 𝔞 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢. nott’s do not make mistakes ( or rather—not their heirs. there’s a part of her; small, insubordinate, sensitive from decades of father’s constant dissatisfaction, that longs to ask him if azkaban was intentional ). there is misinformation, the odd miscalculation. but this is a mistake. there is no world where giselle would linger in the leaky cauldron by choice. she’d stepped out of the apothecary and, inadvertently, into the fray. despite all the shins she’d kicked and subsequent squeals, the crowd carried her here. caught between some fetid half-giant—trussed up in costume and immune to her jinxes—her cleavage pressed hard against the sticky bar.

she’s since conjured a stool; all winged back and butter-soft leather, striking amongst chintz and chipped lacquer. the oaf has moved just enough for giselle to watch blaise zabini slink across the room unhindered. she’s familiar with blaise’s feline good looks; his entirely serpentine charm. “careful. i’ve heard that if you say fate three times, trelawney appears.” now manicured fingers push her wine glass aside by its stem. “if you must—as long as it’s better than this watered down swill.” her attention is called away from those dimples as another round of raucous, rambling singing begins. giselle sighs. “and speaking of luck. seeing as you’re not in theo’s pocket tonight... which fortuitous wix have you followed in here?”

#( giselle ft. blaise zabini )#( giselle & blaise; thread one )#nox.event013 #i love this energy from blaise yes #anything to torture poor theo

WHERE: the leaky cauldron WHEN: early evening WHO: closed // @spelltorn

𝔰𝔢𝔢, 𝔤𝔢𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔤𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔰—the liquid kind, given the shitload of themed cocktails on tap. the pub’s no quieter than the festivities out on the street, but he likes it better this way. it’s all elbows at the bar, tables laden with food and booze and laughter; a group of wizards, close to dad’s age, joining in on the chorus of celestina warbeck’s a cauldron full of hot strong love, with ad-libbed lyrics so graphic they’d make mum blush. it reminds george of growing up at the burrow, before—

speaking of. george’s not sure how other families do it, but his brother’s red hair is a beacon, and he follows him to the bar. “mate!” it’s so much simpler without sobriety as a noose—to forget his self-made promises to stay away, to slip an arm around ron’s shoulders. “you tried this?” he holds up his drink, a neon, bubbling green; it sloshes over his hand. “it’s uh... uh... well, it’s fucking great, that’s what.” he grins, all ease, and leans over to get the barman’s attention. “we’ll have two more of these, and whatever you’ve got right there.”

#( george ft. ron weasley )#( george & ron; thread one )#nox.event013

MAISIE LESTRANGE:

maisie seen no harm in it ( no she didn’t care for the holiday ) would have much rather preferred it be like any other day – but this beats spending it alone, wallowing. she gives a smile as she’s greeted with a kiss on both cheeks, mimicking the same behavior and trying not to wince at the name she hadn’t been in such a long time. trying not to show it left a distasteful taste lingering in her mouth. “ maisie, but yes it’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.” the seamless switch to french is impressive, she herself hardly spoke it anymore but it brings out more of a smile. that much is on her features that’s she impressed. “ is that so ? how did i end up with such a sophisticated date ? “

𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔟𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔰. the sacred twenty eight are exactly that—reverence and heritage and wealth combined ( well, with the exception of the weasleys). giselle could name maisie’s sister, her parents, her cousins; fortunately, she knows anything vaguely stalkerish is best avoided in dating. “maisie,” it seems a shame, to shorten such a melodic name. but giselle is observant, if nothing else; she slips back into english, and into her seat. “sophisticated? i’m sure madam puddifoot would be flattered.” madam puddifoot wouldn’t known sophistication if it slapped her sideways. but giselle smiles; she reaches across the table and runs a forefinger and thumb over maisie’s sleeve. “is this parisienne? it’s lovely.”

#( giselle ft. maisie lestrange )#( giselle & maisie; thread one )

WHAT: valentines blind date, feb 2021 WHERE: madam puddifoots, hogsmeade WHO: closed // @ofenchantment

GISELLE has yet to discover the source of today’s imminent mortification. her list of suspects include former mortal enemies, envious colleagues and tempest ( although, considering how many bludgers she’s taken to the back of the head, giselle’s not certain she can even read ). friday night’s empty bottle of elf-made wine and her lingering loneliness are also considered, and promptly eliminated. the outcome remains the same; today, giselle has a blind date, arranged by none other than luna lovegood and her crackpot father.

she arrives an hour early, dressed in imported silks and orders wine for the table ( ten points ) and helps herself to a glass ( minus twenty ). by the time her date arrives, a pleasant buzz makes the whole affair far more manageable. giselle stands, pushes a cherub aside ( ducks when it attempts to stab her with its arrow ) and greets her date with a kiss on both cheeks. “giselle nott. and you’re marguerite-margaux?” she smiles, and slips seamlessly into french. “i’ve heard that your eyes acclimate to all the pink, but i can’t confirm that it’s true.”

#( giselle ft. maisie lestrange )#( giselle & maisie; thread one )#nox.event012 #forever overdressed

ROLF SCAMANDER:

LOCATION: Diagon Alley

He’s meant to be interviewing the beautician for an article he’s writing for The Daily Prophet. That’s what he’d been asked to do — but he had never planned on going through with it. With his last article, when he had exposed those that were using Hippogriffs for chariot rides, the reviewers had claimed that Rolf’s argument and appeal was too one-sided, so the editor had recommended that he provide balance in his next article. As if he wants to hand the microphone to those that mistreat creatures and amplify their platforms. Leaning against the back alley, Rolf opens up the jar of captured fairies he’s snatched from the cosmetics store, unbothered by the spectator that catches him in the act. “Fairies don’t like having their wings removed. They’re more than just decoration, y’know?” Sure, fairies are vain, and they like the attention of being stringed along as Fairy Lights, but they don’t consent to their wings being removed. So they shouldn’t be used for Beautification Potions, Girding Potions or any other slew of potions. That is the story that Rolf intends to write.

ROLF SCAMANDER is strange, but not a stranger. father would hate him, was her initial impression, back when father’s views underpinned everything, more insidious than even the most-skilled of legilimens. now four years have passed, and giselle’s mind is her own. she and rolf have worked together, twice; first in the carpathian mountains, to rescue a cursed hungarian horntail ( and retrieve her treasure ) and again in puerto rico, on an expedition involving a crypt, complex runes and too many chupacabras for anyone’s liking. their track record is professional, efficient, mutually beneficial. and yes, he is strange; giselle likes him anyway.

“so i can see.” her gaze flits to the jar, vibrating with the light and what she imagines is the vitriol of two dozen or so wingless fairies. she cranes her neck to peer up back at him. “so what happens to them now? considering they can’t, well, fly away.”

#( giselle ft. rolf scamander )#( giselle & rolf; thread one )#bright is so gorgeous pls

TEMPEST CLEARWATER:

tempest would be purposefully late just to keep giselle waiting for her, just to rile the other up – the image of giselle standing pretty and getting more begrudged by the minute made them feel GOOD, for purely egotistical reasons, of course. this time, though, she had spent far too long looking in the mirror and pushing hair this way and that, and had genuinely lost track of the time. not that it mattered. tempest sauntered up and THERE GISELLE WAS, waiting. every time felt like being fourteen again – there was still a relief that sat in tempest’s chest, like one day she’d show up and giselle wouldn’t be there.

“yes. they have to knock me out and kidnap me.” tempest’s face is bordering serious, tone monotonous, with a twitch in her eyebrow that gave the game away. she tucks herself into giselle’s side as soon as possible, looping their arms together and patently ignoring the painful grip on her wrist. there’s a snort as she follows her gaze up to the awning, bumping her hip into the other. “you are ALLOWED to go inside. she needs your eye, obviously.”

FOURTEEN is a flurry of discovery; first kisses, hands fumbling beneath robes. although infamous for her many accessories, giselle does not possess rose-tinted spectacles; slytherins ( the best of them, anyway ) see the world in shades of grey. and still, it’s in these quiet, private moments that she remembers how they were—intrepid, inquisitive and more innocent than either ever knew.

“kinky. which, considering it’s you, makes perfect sense.” even now, they jigsaw together; her curves and tempest’s lean muscle. lace-covered fingers slip higher and map the beater’s forearm, her bicep, soft and faux-subconsciously. “i think she’s afraid of me. the last time i went in there, it was all take two with the basilisk.” she mimics petrification which is cruel, considering what happened to penelope, but also funny. giselle grins. “but then—little old mandrake you would cure her, i suppose. so it’s a happy ending.” she casts an umbrella charm and they step out, arms interlinked, into the rain. “so, we have options. number one, the poison apple. or, there’s the spa...” she shoots her friend a smile. as ever, here is the illusion of choice; she’s already made her mind up, but tempest ought to feel included too.

#( giselle ft. tempest clearwater )#( giselle & tempest; thread one )

ARTHUR WEASLEY:

LOCATION: The shed on the grounds of The Burrow

After dinner, Arthur holes away in his shed, busying his hands with his latest project.

The free space around his shed is limited, previous projects that are either half-finished or no longer of use taunting him with their presence — dozens, if not hundreds, of model airplanes that could never fly; an old wooden periwinkle crib, the paint faded and chipped, G.W. etched on the side; a pair of magical glasses that he had been experimenting on years back, attempting to charm them to see through any use of Polyjuice potion; a new, smaller dining table that he had been working on to accommodate for their empty nest that he didn’t have the heart to bring into the house; a shampoo bottle that he enchanted to lather up flatulent bubble that he thought George might like for his shop that he didn’t have the courage to pitch to him; Sirius’ motorcycle that he had mended and intended to give to Harry upon his graduation before The Battle of Hogwarts robbed him of that first chance. But maybe, for that last one, he would be granted another opportunity?

Unable to bear the thought of throwing any item away, Arthur has been considering expanding on his shed. He’s always been a bit of a packrat. A sentimental one, but a packrat all the same. It’s a testament to the infinite depth of Molly’s heart that she has tolerated his hoarding habits all of these years.

Arthur spends more time in the shed than in previous years, coping with the surmounting stress and concern pulsing against his brain by keeping his hands working. If he stops, he might have to acknowledge that inadequacy is bubbling in his chest, failure knocking against his ribcage. He can’t seem to keep his family together, keep his family whole, and he would unravel at the seams if left to his thoughts for too long. So he distracts himself with the task at hand: carving a duck out of wood. It would not measure up to a rubber duck, but maybe he could enchant it to float.

Arthur’s so enraptured in his work that he doesn’t notice that he’s not alone until he hears someone clear their throat. Not looking up from his carving, he responds with a distracted, “Hm? What is it?”

GEORGE lives in a muggle flat in belsize park. it’s the second story of a victorian house, with a balcony, a shared garden and a shower three sizes too small. there’s a café that does bacon butties almost as good as mum’s down the road, and he fit the floo in the fireplace by himself.

and it’s fine. well, it’s overpriced and a place where dreams come to die, according to fred. he’d slipped in a week after the move, around george’s eighth glass of firewhiskey. he’d then spent the next hour and a half taking the piss out of the place ( the floral wallpaper, the chintz sofa—and god, the avocado bathroom ) whilst george polished off the bottle. ginny would’ve laughed; she’d have joined in too—“what’s your name, aunt muriel?”—except she’s not seen the décor, back then or now. none of them have. it’s been two years since george bought the flat, and it remains as big a secret as 12 grimmauld place. of course, they have their opinions. that’s what it means to be a weasley—seven oars stuck in at all times. he still owns the flat above the shop, after all. you could roll out of bed, ron reasons, be at work in ten minutes tops. you could move back in, mum says, every time he visits; like clockwork after the war, and again when he first leaves rehab. by the third stint, the offers dry up.

but dad’s onboard with muggle london. he’s onboard with all of their ideas, as long as no one gets hurt—like the time he and fred charmed ginny’s dolls to roam the house at night and ron was ambushed on his way to the loo. he’d had nightmares for a week straight, but george remembers dad’s smile whilst mum told them off. after that, he’d taken the twins into his shed and showed them what he was working on. he let them touch, listened to their ideas. he crafted that spirit in them, too—the desire to transform, invent. the belief that a broken thing could find new purpose.

it’s gone seven by the time he reaches the burrow, and george knows to head for the shed before he sees the light on. when he shuffles inside, his cheeks are red from the walk up. he chooses to floo into the pub a mile away; the burrow is always busy, and it’s... simpler this way. for everyone. “alright, dad,” the shed’s a hoarder’s wet dream and george tries to recall the last time he visited. “reckon you’re gonna need another extension charm in here soon.” he places a six pack of lager—the muggle kind they both like—on one of the ( limited ) empty surfaces. a plastic bag hangs from the other hand. “behold! only the richest of plunders and bounties from hampstead’s finest charity, er, establishments.” there’s an ease to george that only ever comes nowadays following a drink. he shakes the bag. “fancy a look?”

#( george ft. arthur weasley )#( george & arthur; thread one )#this got so long i'm v sorry pls feel free to chop it down bc most of it is backstory !!

patrocles

JUNGLELAND (2020) dir. Max Winkler

#( — george: mirror. )

WHEN: just after 8pm WHERE: mermish, an upscale wix restaurant in wizarding london WHO: closed // @tiimetvrners

TRADITION is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire. this, another of their father’s commandments, one of a hundred hurdles to jump. decades on, the nott siblings do not disappoint. she and theo meet every thursday, 8pm, without fail. it’s ours, she tells herself. not everything belongs to him. she repeats the words in front of the mirror before she leaves her flat, but they never seem to stick.

the restaurant has since changed name and hands, but giselle remembers it how it once was; how once, her father had forced a family to move tables mid-meal, simply because he could. it had thrilled her then. now she casts her eyes away, back toward her menu. she listens to a table nearby, searches for some inspiration to break the silence at their own. “i ran into narcissa malfoy this week. there was a queue outside of the apothecary winding halfway down diagon alley—plebs eager to buy amortentia to poison their pathetic crushes.”

#( giselle ft. theodore nott )#( giselle & theo; thread one )

WHEN: around 7pm WHERE: the utterly redundant awning outside of tattered cover bookshop, diagon alley WHO: closed // @tempcsted

THE muggles would call it biblical, waiting for tempest to appear in a storm. as fascinating as she finds them, giselle does not put faith in gods—and right now, she’s too wet to find any of it funny. wixen seers would say that the rain cleanses, washes the sins of the day away. giselle knows that diagon alley’s cobbled streets slant; the water descends the steps to knockturn alley and into its choked passageways, to pool and stagnate. there’s symbolism there too. as with many things, she chooses not to look closely. the awning outside of penelope clearwater’s bookshop appeared to offer ample protection; appearances, as she’s reminded all too often, can be disappointing. she’s opted for a warming charm to stave away the february chill and so, by the time the storm herself arrives, giselle’s signature coif sticks flat to her forehead. “tell me something. do they stick you in the quidditch pitch like a mandrake and pluck you out when it’s time to play? or am i the only one who has the pleasure of your excellent timekeeping?” giselle’s grip around the other girl’s wrist is the same steel as her voice, but she pulls her close to press a kiss to each of her wet cheeks. “your sister needs a stronger umbrella charm. between that,” she points up, “and the name tattered cover, it’s feeling more homeless, less chic.”

#( giselle ft. tempest clearwater )#( giselle & tempest; thread one )

NARCISSA MALFOY:

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: diagon alley !

“i have no idea how they get away with it,” contrary to the look of disapproval cast towards the queue that’s gathering outside of the apothecary, however, narcissa is nothing but amused. a sign in the window, just visible beyond the throng, promises a miniscule vial of love potion to every customer of the day - not enough to truly work, but enough for interest to be piqued. it’s incredibly entrepreneurial, and she’s inclined to think it draco’s doing, even if it isn’t. “you do have to wonder, of course, just how many poor fools are about to slyly drop it into their partners coffees, hoping it’ll work,” gaze flits to nearest neighbour and she smiles, wryly, taking the time to explain, “it has to be a cauldron of amortentia. you can smell it a mile away, can’t you?”

POTIONMAKING is pragmatism in its purest form; there’s an obstacle, an approach, an answer. and despite appearances, there’s always logic—a reason why fluxweed must be picked under a full moon for polyjuice, no matter how inane it may sound. logical is not the word giselle would use to describe the morning’s apothecary shoppers. “it must be human nature. given the option, most will choose the shortcut to avoid hard work.” she is not truly disappointed ( her father taught her better than that ) but the suggestion of it is there; a scowl half-hidden behind her silk scarf. she surveys the sign again over the head of a hapless-looking witch. “i’m sure half of muggle london can smell it. i’ve read that the peppermint enhances the scent—add too much, and you have another potion altogether.” she returns lady malfoy’s wry smile. “but i suppose it doesn’t have to work. hope bottled is a powerful thing.”

#( giselle ft. narcissa malfoy )#( giselle & narcissa; thread one )