MARTYR.

He was incredibly endearing. They called him the life of the party; the core of every celebratory jubilee, every joyous affair. There was something magnanimous and splendid about this golden boy of theirs; such daring mischief, such charming rebellion. They adored him. But there was also something irretrievably tragic to the way he smiled, all boyish good looks and expectation. And this was the tragedy, this was what made him so terribly beloved — no one knew how much he shouldered.

[declanprewett-blog]

DATE : 5 September 1944 LOCATION : Gryffindor quidditch locker rooms TIME : 23:54 (11:54 pm) STATUS : Open to any

The shower water hits his back freezing cold.

Nevertheless, Declan endures it. It’s his own fault - he had lost track of time practicing on the pitch and missed curfew, when the water is promptly shut off. Declan considers a warming spell, but recalls with some disappointment that his wand is currently zipped up in his quidditch bag, which he has hung by the locker room door.

It doesn’t matter. The cold isn’t too bad - enjoyable, even, as it seems to wake him up. He’s exhausted - three hours flying alone on the pitch would do that to any man - but this is a kinder sort of exhaustion. He can feel it ache in his calves and callous on his palms. This sort of tired is so much better. Declan shuts off the water after a few minutes and emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist. He is wiping off the beads of water trickling from his hair and down his shoulders, chest, when he hears footsteps.

He stops.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” Declan’s mouth quirks into a small frown. It is difficult to ascertain whether he regards the figure with an innocent and mild bemusement, or genuine blooming caution. Then, perhaps realizing his state of dress (or lack thereof), Declan makes to awkwardly wrestle on a loose sweater. It clings uncomfortably to his wet skin, but he ignores it.

Declan vaguely realizes he is shivering slightly, the chill of the water not having entirely left his body. “I’ll call a Prefect,” he says. A friendly tease, a sarcastic threat, empty words to fill the spanning silence -

It could be anything, really.

[leoyaxley-blog]

“Right you will.”

They stand across from one another, regarding; a look of bemusement flitting over Declan’s face, a quaint smile tugging over the edges of Leo’s mouth. A cold chill pervades the night, and yes, it’s late; but the hourhand has never stopped them before, has it? Somewhere beyond the mountains, a war is being fought. Somewhere within the castle, Electra is scheming, her green-clad sycophants preparing for a fight of their own -- dirty in variety, naturally. 

They are two boys who would scale the world if only to stand upon the highest precipice and look over all the ruin yet to ameliorate; they have fought and hoped and dreamed for far too long, far too wide, to stop when the sun falls and the moon takes its place. Night has drawn its cold, unforgiving blanket over the horizon; but still they push on. It’s near-midnight, and still Leo can find his best mate here in these dark corners and open skies; drilling, drilling, perfecting. 

“Go on and fetch a prefect, you cheeky rascal. Can’t nab me without nabbing yourself.” A goodnatured quirk of his lips, almost that lucky, searing smile - but not quite. “Last I recall, I’m the captain and you’re the chaser.” He suddenly perks, as if struck by a brilliant idea. “But -- d’you suppose if we’re both out by Saturday, there’ll be a raincheck on the match?”

There’s something strange and awning between them - a distance that spirals out of the deep and creeps silently out of the abyss. Standing here, one shoulder pressed casually (yet not casually) against the doorframe of the locker room, his cloaks draped dryly about him; he feels all at once far away and magnified. There’s a peculiar taste of want that tickles his tongue. But instead of letting it blossom, Leo steadfastly raises his eyes to Declan’s as the other boy pulls on a shirt. But still, he cannot help but watch as the rivulets of water make their inevitable way towards the ground --- over a cheek, a collarbone, the swell of a chest --- 

                     and he swallows, feeling his Adam’s apple bob up and down, once. Twice.

“Bella keeps telling me not to worry, but I know Lestrange’s cooking up something beastly. Everyone’s on edge.” Really, he feels that it’s only him. It’s only him on edge as he stands here watching his mate dress. His brow furrows, if only to distract himself. One hand plays absentmindedly with his wand as he waits for Declan to finish. “How was practice? Worth the cold shower? Should’ve invited me, mate.”

[vntonin]

DATE: 11 September, 1944 LOCATION: The Grounds / The Quidditch Pitch AVAILABILITY: Open to all.

 He had always been quite addicted to the feeling of adrenaline - in all its forms, it was a drug of which he could not get enough. Of course he was indulgent in all things decadent, but there was nothing more so than the feeling of blood pumping, heart racing, head spinning; the thrill of the chase gave him cause - and if not the chase of the hunt, then that of the greatest sport known to wizard-kind. One would not look upon Antonin Dolohov and think of Quidditch, but his father had put him on a broom before he knew to walk - or so he liked to claim. His skill had been apparent upon arriving at Hogwarts; there had never been a question in his mind that he’d be handed a position on the team, nor had there been a question that he would excel. Antonin excelled in all things - his proficiency at the sport was no exception. 

A braggart by nature, he could not help but hold his head a bit higher, shoulders a bit straighter, chest a bit stronger as he emerged from (yet another) successful practice, hair wet and tousled from a quick shower and robes hanging half-undone upon unashamed musculature. The high was something akin to sex - satisfaction tasted quite similar when it was as good as it was with he (and it was always good with Antonin). If ever there was superiority personified, it was here, now, slinging a leather pack over his shoulder and emerging from the Slytherin locker room with smirk upon his face. Each step was propelled by an adrenaline high; the cool fall air did nothing to dampen the flame beneath his ribs, but rather stoked the embers and made him strong. 

All he’d need to complete the trifecta of thrill, adrenaline, and violence would be to hit something, he thought, with the smug satisfaction of assured victory. Were he a Beater, there would be no Gryffindors left come Sunday; perhaps he’d hit something else. 

But, of course, the search for such bloody thrill had been what had damned him to begin with. Conscience, however, had never been his guide. 

His shoulder bumped another as he stepped full into the night air, abandoning the quiet darkness of the locker room, for his mind remained upon the pitch; eyes wheeled, self-indulgent smirk turned to a toothy snarl of a smile. “Come for another show?” he snapped, at present not caring to whom he spoke, “If you wanted to touch, all you had to do was ask.” His tone toed the line between confrontation and seduction, as it so often did - it would take just the slightest touch to give a push.

[leoyaxley-blog]

There is a restless thrumming in his veins, a begging song of glory, a need for victory so acute that it was almost like suffering.

There are betting grids and tactics and an ever-changing roster; there are red pins and thinly veiled silver slurs, and somewhere beyond all the organized chaos; there is a boy named Leo Yaxley who would be leading his team into a metaphorical battleground for his third and final year. Gracefully he would advance, nobly he would take to the skies -- and inevitably, play without the edge that the snakes had cultivated in a matter of weeks. Total annihilation, Cygnus Black had thrown offhandedly to one of his lackeys, glancing smugly at him as he passed in the halls. 

And would it be?

He’s seen the competition. He’s seen those venom-stricken fangs. And he’s seen his soft-edged lions, who are impossibly brave and devastatingly good, but not enough to overcome the rising tide of cruel smiles and snarls in the day, in the dark. He’s already drafted half a dozen times how they might fall, or be knocked down, or otherwise incapacitated by a dirty slash of an illicit wand, the heel of a boot, pins and needles and a thousand ways to play like a fucking champion. Isn’t that what all this pompous vainglory boiled down to? Rivalry. He was the face of a rivalry that ran so deep that entire continents had been split for it, and this is the irony: this face he wears is broken, too. 

Nevertheless, they push on, likes waves against a stormy beach. 

They have midnight practices and drills at dawn. They push harder, faster  -- but no one pushes with as much might or determination as the boy with the captain’s pin on his lapel, the red robes on his back. It’s half past eight, less than two hours to curfew; and the pitch is dark -- but still he is here, shouldering his equipment on one arm and Lumosing with the other. Declan would be here soon; they were to go through some plays. Leo would play Beater. Dec would play Chaser. 

He’s caught up in it, so caught up that when he looks up in time to catch someone’s shoulder with his own; he’s jolted out of mindless reverie. “Sorry mate,” is the quick, automatic response, boyish; casual. But then comes the recognition and the snarl, and Leo’s eyes, of their own accord, flick up and down Dolohov’s half-naked body - a fact that he immediately stiffens for, after. 

Not that type of stiffen, wanker. 

He’s reminded, suddenly; of Corban. Of Durmstrang. Of darkness and shadow. Bare bleached bone. And though uncertainty strikes him, what was one more wolf to evade? He’d been running for centuries; there was enough blood to lead them astray for another day, another year. Triggers were always so easy to set off, he’s treading carefully, now. The beast was still growling. 

If you wanted to touch, all you had to do was ask.

“Right. Well, unless you have a flesh wound from impact,” Leo says at last, and though the tone is light, he feels uneasy. “Let’s not get aggro over it, yeah?” 

[soracities]

The humiliation I go through when I think of my past can only be described as grace. We are created by being destroyed.

Franz Wright, from ‘Letter’ (via soracities)