sanctimonia vincet semper

1878. victorian england. abraxas malfoy. sixteen years old. slytherin house. always in control. "glory and gore go hand in hand / that's why we're making headlines / you could try and take us / but victory's contagious"

[shdwlynx-deactivated20190604]

Seraphina looked up from her art, her head cocking slightly to the left as an amused smile formed on her lips; whether it was pleasant amusement or not, she was not sure, but it was amusement nonetheless. He made an interesting point, though it did make her wonder if the man was of higher class. In her experience, many did not like to be the talk of the school unless it was of some form of praise. Maybe that was the case with him and his family. Maybe they were both very highly spoken of. Whatever his reasons may be, she much rather preferred not being talked about - whether it be for good or bad.

Her eyes turned back to her drawing, her pen adding the last few touches. “Mm, your reasons are good enough ones to not want to share your name. After all, your name is your’s to give. But seeing as you already know about my mother, there really is no reason for me to hide mine.” With the last stroke of her pen, she lifted her hand off the paper, a smile forming at the product. Her eyes turned back to him, and with a small smile she said, “Seraphina.” She turned her notebook around, holding it out for the man to see. “The sketch is done.”

[malfoyvis-blog]

“Seraphina,” he repeated, her name foreign on his tongue. Seraphina Bones. He would remember that.

Abraxas slipped off of the half-wall he had been balanced on and slipped closer to where Seraphina was sitting, leaning forward so he could get a better view. It seemed to him that the sketch was clearly rough, but detailed, with every stroke precisely crafted. “Ah! I look magnificent,” he said, his voice filled with approval. “Mostly due to my excellent facial structure, certainly. But your portrayal of it is… acceptable.”

It was the first depiction of himself he had laid eyes on. His parents had tried to commission a portrait when he was younger, but he had refused to sit still and did nothing but taunt the painter until he fled in a panic. Since then, Abraxas hadn’t met anyone who did anything as pointless as art. He settled down in the grass near her feet and reached out towards the sketchbook, intending on flipping through the other pages. “So, what is the purpose of your drawings, then? What do you do with them once you’ve finished?”

[eviebrxnnan-deactivated20160723]

Bathilda struggled for a moment longer with her dancing partner as the man was unrepentant and relentless, uncaring for the many eyes that surely were following their movements. They were in the middle of a crowded room and panic was rising within her as she realized she might have been assaulted right there and no one would care to stop it. She loathed feeling this vulnerable, fingers gone clumsy and her wand out of her reach, she felt tears welling up in her eyes.

Right as she had given hope anyone would see her predicament and be helpful for once, she heard a voice to her left. Not quite disapproving but definitely mocking although for once the mockery was directed at someone other than herself, a surprise welcome seeing as the one who was speaking was none other than Abraxas Malfoy. She wondered if he knew who she was, that he was addressing a lower class woman. Would that make a difference, then? She was too cynical to believe that some of the students at this school would not let her be harmed simply because of her blood status or social condition. She knew too well she was no more than an unwelcome party to some of them.

She chose not to worry about that when Abraxas was directing his attention to the boy whose face had reddened all of a sudden, she could feel his grip weakening as his attention drifted towards Abraxas. He could not be so foolish as to want to fight someone in his state, he’d make a fool of himself. No, this was the sort of cowardly man who preyed on women for he deemed them weaker, nevermind that if she had been in full possession of her capacities then he’d be on the floor bleeding by now and damned be all the people present to witness it.

What the Slytherin alumni did next surprised her as he grasped the boy’s wrist and forcefully removed him. Was this some chivalrous act she was meant to thank him for? Would he expect something from her now? Somehow selflessness was not a trait she especially associated with him, not from what she’d heard of him. Still as she stepped away, she muttered an embarrassed “Thank you.” Before she could think better of it and with a heavy sigh she added. “He’s not worth the trouble. Let us not draw more attention to ourselves. Please.”

[malfoyvis-blog]

Abraxas, though he had been focusing on speaking to the boy, couldn’t have missed the look of surprise on the young woman’s face. Was it really that astonishing that he would offer some assistance? Just because his involvement was for his own enjoyment and not her benefit did not mean he shouldn’t get credit for the outcome, at least. 

Besides, he didn’t always relish seeing people suffer just for the sake of it. And since he didn’t know who she was, he had yet to decide if his actions were justified or if he could have left well enough alone. He supposed he would make up his mind soon enough. 

Once the boy was out of the way, Abraxas raised an eyebrow under his mask at her muttered thanks. “If you want to thank me, tell me this: why didn’t you shout?” he asked flatly. “He was assaulting you, and yet you tried so desperately not to draw attention to it. Why?” His frosty gaze was unwavering, but underneath it there was a hint of genuine curiosity. Was it because she had been concerned about her reputation? Or was she really that proud, that she didn’t wish to ask for help even when it was clearly warranted? 

He’s not worth the trouble, she had said, still trying not to draw the crowd’s attention even further. Abraxas had to try extraordinarily hard not to roll his eyes. “He’s not worth my trouble,” he stressed, “That’s certain. But he’s surely worth yours. Your wand arm is free now.” He took a moment to stare blankly at her, then back at the offending young man, who was seemingly too idiotic to take the chance to run when he could. The hint of a challenge underlaid Abraxas’ next words.  “Retribution is within your grasp. Or are you going to allow this scoundrel get away with it?” 

[isleblack]

a dream is a wish your heart makes / / isla & open

[isleblack]

“Oh, not at all! Please, come join me,” she said, her smile sharp and sun-lit, and formed from habit rather than intention, appraising him as she spoke. Abraxas. Of course, she knew him, knew of him – she knew that he was her age and from her class, and she knew that he was a part of the Sacred 28; a pureblood poem that her mother and sister spouted like it was Shakespeare. She knew him – knew of him – from her parents’ balls, his parents’ balls, but – each time that she met him, at each ball, it seemed like she knew him less and less. And here she was: at another ball, meeting Abraxas, or perhaps – meeting another Abraxas, or meeting him for the first time. She could never tell with him. She looked over his frame, quick, her intent clouding her widened eyes. She registered in the distant recesses of her mind that he looked good. She knew that he looked good: he looked like he was dripping with wealth and power and confidence; he looked like what a pureblood was supposed to look like. He was handsome, but she knew this – in the back of her mind, in the pit of her stomach – she knew that he was too sharp- and too smart-looking. It wasn’t his face that set her on the edge, but rather what hid behind it, and this – this handsome exterior – sharpened her edges to blades. Still, she smiled at him: sweet and simple, like she was less than she was. Like she was no one to be bothered with; like she wasn’t worth the trouble. “No. I don’t suppose we do,” she said, almost repeating his earlier words, her tone warm and bright. She giggled, then, low and soft, almost like she was nervous, her laughter lingering in the air even after she had closed her mouth.

She flushed somewhat when he took her hand – her cheeks flooded with pink, rather than red, like a rose before it blooms – from embarrassment or nerves, or an automatic response to touch, she couldn't tell, but still, it burned her features from the inside-out, the tips of her ears turning as pink as her cheeks. She bit her bottom lip, raking her teeth over it and tugging it into her mouth, sucking it red and swollen before biting down on it, hard – hard enough to sting, hard enough to anchor her and her thoughts back, back down to the ground – before letting it go and nodding, licking her lips to make them anew before smiling (again), as bright as she could manage. “It’s nice to see you, Abraxas,” she said, the smile in her voice light and cold. “I’m so glad that you came over here. How has your night been? I do that it has been going well. Have you danced much? Have you been for a carriage ride? I did earlier this evening, and it was – perhaps – the highlight.”

[malfoyvis-blog]

Isla’s gentle giggle echoed through the air around them, one moment of softness amidst a tumultuous world. How was it that she could seem so delicate and warm? It was a rarity in their kind of people, and a quality that Abraxas admired - while also being skeptical of its legitimacy because of that rarity as well. As she took his hand, her face burned a lovely pink. Slowly spinning her around, he took in the movement of her exquisite dress. “You look a vision this evening. I’m sure it’s proven to be worth the effort.” When she’d finished moving, he smoothly slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow. “Care for a stroll around the dance floor? No use standing in one place like a pair of frozen pine trees.”

Her voice radiated frosty sweetness, his favorite kind of paradox. Still, Isla flooded him with questions, one after another without pause, like she felt the need to fill the space between them with words. “I’m overjoyed that my presence is wanted. But so many questions... I don’t make you nervous, do I? I wouldn’t want that,” he said in an innocent tone which somehow still insinuated that such a thing would be exactly what he wanted. 

“How pleasant to hear that your evening has been successful. You must tell me all about this carriage ride. And who accompanied a lovely young lady like yourself on such an adventure?” He cocked his head in calculated interest. The last he had heard, Isla was distinctly non-involved in any sort of relationship. Knowing her personal involvements would be one more piece of the puzzle.

After addressing her presence throughout the festivities, he wondered how to characterize his own participation in order to answer the rest of her lump of questions. “My night has been unusually eventful, I would say. A little dancing, a little drinking,” he said with a sly smile. “No carriage rides for me, but then again, I’ve always been more interested in the people than the scenery.”

[shdwlynx-deactivated20190604]

He did not respond to her question, and that alone answered her’s: he was probably one of many that was aware of her mother and her mother’s line of work. But since he did not say a word, she chose not to say anything on the matter as well. Why bring up such words that would only open an old wound she was trying so hard to keep sitiched together? 

People would not change, and people would not stop judging. All she could do was say something when there was a need for something to be said. 

When she had expressed that she did not know his name, Seraphina had hoped the young man would introduce himself. But instead, he was finding some form of amusement in it. She didn’t quite understand why he felt the conversation would be any less or any more compelling than it already was, but she could not force him to do something he did not feel. But she still felt like she could ask - “And why is that?” 

[malfoyvis-blog]

Think of it in this way,” he began to explain, his posture still nonchalant. “If people told stories about your family - they tell stories of mine as well. Whereas your experience was, I expect, less than pleasant?” He shot her a questioning look, as if to simply confirm that he was not making any unfounded assumptions, then continued. “I, in fact, take extreme pleasure in those surrounding my relatives and myself. Myself especially.” A roguish grin lit up the entirety of his face. 

“However, as you would almost certainly have heard such stories, you might be alarmed to find yourself in my presence. Or perhaps enraged. Or, in a strange turn of events, pleasantly satisfied. Though I must admit, that’s fairly rare,” he said, pausing to think back on previous encounters. “And while seeing one’s reaction to my introduction is usually entertaining enough, novelty is always appreciated. And what is more novel than speaking in anonymity?”

Abraxas paused to observe the young woman for a moment, trying to gauge just how important names were to her end of the conversation. “If it’s any consolation, we’re nearly on the same level, as I have no idea what your given name is.”  

[aliceanders-blog1-deactivated20]

Luther had somewhat PRIDED himself on being a person who remained out of conflict, or did not hope to start it. Yet this seemed to be a turmoil engrained from previous encounters rather than something ignited on a whim. Nonetheless, he shouldn’t have encouraged it, shouldn’t have even responded to it, but the needling and the slight push against the edge of the cliff held more seduction than he had anticipated prior. ( In fact, he had not anticipated this happening at all. ) If he could have retreated, or felt as if he could gracefully bow out, then he would have. But the residue hung there, calling out to him - and he continued forward into it.

“It would solve some issues and recreate others,” he responded shortly. He had no wish to be engaged in a debate with the Malfoy boy over those things, which would be construed instead as cruelties and insults - and he was already well on the path towards extreme irritation. He did not need another precipice to fall over: that of ire.

Wonderful. The two-step. It could not have been a simple waltz, but something quicker, and a bit more furious in nature, a competition of the spirits. How fitting. 

He grunted. “Of course you wouldn’t, for that would precedent a lack of manners, and that might insult the entirety of your family.” So he allowed himself to be the follower, though it took little effort for his legs to keep up. He watched in his flicker gazes the steps of the other dancers and inserted them as one might a hologram into his memories. It was repetitive. Good.

“Oh, I do suppose we all have our reasons, MALFOY.” No sense in keeping names to oneself since his identity had been confirmed. Strange looks followed the two of them even remaining on the edge of the crowd, causing Luther to straighten - only furthering the difference in height and encouraging the glances. “Perhaps I have been hoping to gain alone time with you, a deep and burning desire that remains insatiable. Or perhaps I accepted an invitation to this debacle as it was expected of me. The mystery remains unsolved.”

It was, however, a peculiar question, and sharp wolfish eyes cut to the face still smug beneath his own. “And what are the reasons of your attendance? Have you no pressing business to take you from this apparent machinery of boredom?”

[malfoyvis-blog]

Abraxas smirked, the other young man’s brusque tone finally showing some element of irritation. But despite the fact that common sense would warn one to avoid further provocation, Abraxas had no intentions of backing down. “It would solve some problems and also cause them, hmm? What a spectacular analysis. You should write books,” he suggested, his voice bright but still somehow conveying an astonishing level of ridicule.

At Blackwood’s remark about a lack of manners being an insult his family, Abraxas scoffed. “It may amaze you to know that my family cares very little about how I act. I do not need their approval, just their name - which luckily I have already acquired. And with so little work on my part.” He continued to lead their two-step, keeping his gaze cooly trained on his companion, without so much as a glance at his feet. That Blackwood could keep up was immensely satisfying (though the vindictive part of him couldn’t help but imagine how amusing it would be should Blackwood fall on his face).

Abraxas’ eyes flashed in satisfaction at the sound of his surname. And as their conversation intensified, his dancing partner drew taller in height, simultaneously drawing more attention to the caustic pair. He could feel the gawking glances of the students dancing nearby, and his sly smile broadened.

Let them stare.

“You’re one of many, then. My captivating personality seems to be irresistible. Ah, what would your family say if they heard such indecorous gossip?” he taunted carelessly. “But regrettably, I’m more inclined to believe the latter. Only because you seem so tiresomely focused on yielding to expectations.” Leaning forward, he let the words drip like venom from his tongue. “At least in that respect, I’m afraid you’re not much of a mystery at all.”

Blackwood met him at every turn - a step for a step, and a question for a question. Why was he in attendance? For exactly this. For the moment when adrenaline rushed through his bloodstream because there were stories to unveil, words to contort. When he could erect a cold exterior, his silver tongue crafting insults at every turn, while underneath it all he reveled in delight.

Abraxas lifted his chin to meet Blackwood’s eyes. His lips twisted. “I simply fancied a dance. Can you fault me for that?”

[shdwlynx-deactivated20190604]

It was not necessarily nonsensical thinking. The young man made a point: if people thought less about everything and just did, it wouldn’t be that terrible. At the same time, there were plenty examples of people doing before thinking and paying for it. But then again, if they person was well aware of the repercussions, what did it matter? It was a lot of thinking for something she would never really do ( especially since she did not know if she had the nerve for such a thing ). 

Instead, Seraphina continued to focus on the drawing, nodding to his words. When he spoke her name, Seraphina looked up, surprised her knew her name. “You know my name?” she asked, but part of her knew why he might. Despite three years passing since her peers learned of what her mother’s line of work was, some still enjoyed to pick on her and point. It was almost scandal, that her mother had done work of someone lower than the lower class. It was angering. “I’m sorry that I cannot return the knowledge.” It was true–at least, she had not actually seen the man before. Maybe she may have heard his name, though. 

[malfoyvis-blog]

For some odd reason, the girl seemed surprised that he knew who she was. Hard to believe, considering the news about her mother that had been the talk of the school a few years ago. It was damning in most opinions, prostitution. Even those of the lower classes looked down on prostitutes in condescension. 

(Abraxas knew that the Bones woman had most likely done what she had to in order to earn money, at the constant risk of being found out and ruined, and a single-mindedness like that was a quality he could actually respect. Not that he would have mentioned this particular opinion to anyone outside of his own social circle. They already thought he was strange enough - best to not give the lower class any hope that their actions might be praise-worthy.)

People may have stopped gossiping about it after a time, but that did not mean they had all forgotten. Abraxas shot her a patronizing look, not even deigning to answer her question. 

He did not seem fazed in the slightest that she didn’t know who he was, though. Because the Malfoy name carried so much prestige, and it was rare to find someone who didn’t recognize him, he saw a prime opportunity for something new. “You seem to be simply brimming with apologies today,” he noted. “I’d rather not tell you who I am. Our conversation will be much more compelling that way.” 

[aliceanders-blog1-deactivated20]

It almost p a i n e d him to be in agreement with someone who glared upon him with the disdain equivalent to the greater bishops staring down the impoverished in the dark streets. Yet he had sworn against residing behind the thought processes instilled into him from society’s cunning mind since birth, and so this meant overlooking the squirming caused within his bones at the thought of remaining in accordance with someone scaly of a different class. ( Then a case could be made: he did not despise the social class, but rather the person who was in it. ) And it also could not be completely described as loathing as of yet, though it might turn that way.

He merely - became highly distressed whenever someone strove to push at him. To retain his genteel nature and his tranquil movements was Luther’s promised character, and to have some outside force shoving at him to let things go a little was not what the wolf inside him needed.

It was difficult enough to retain control of it all - and i m p o s s i b l e beneath a full moon for obvious reasons. He needed no such ascertained difficulties as a human.

“Oh, we would not be able to,” he allowed, immersing himself in the mockery even for a brief moment. It was true that he retained bitterness against the funereal happenings, especially as to what had become of Matilda Vane herself. It was an image he could not erase - and wouldn’t, not for a very long time, if at all. “By the tongues of others, one would think this was a fortress, and it is far too simple to believe it as such. To overestimate it. Consider all minds changed - at least, one would hope for such.”

            Perhaps then no one else would die.

There came the sharpened grin. It had not crossed Luther’s mind for it to be implemented in a manner such as this - but now, it was far too late. And that supine curve to the mouth let him give the power a name: Abraxas. Relief almost flooded through him - a preamble to the rush of strange bitterness and twisting ire that rooted into the rest. There came the hand. His gaze flickered like the candle, back and forth, face remaining stoic. 

“It would be my honour to accept.” He mocked a bowing curtsey before taking the proffered hand. “To think: now that you have offered to me this dance, I must be pigeonholed into being the woman. Dire, considering I am several metres taller than you even in those shoes you wear.” When he smiled, it was concise, and perhaps only a little wicked.

[malfoyvis-blog]

“But what if we all believe in hope and goodness and put all that darkness behind us?” Abraxas asked with a shake of his head as he roughly paraphrased their headmaster’s words from earlier that evening. The insincerity of his question rang clearly, as did his next words. “That will solve everything, won’t it?” His lips twitched in delight at the entirety of the situation. Either the students believed such nonsense, which made them fools, or they pretended to do so in order to ease their fears, which made them weak. Only the Senate was above such absurdity.

And that was what he revered the most - being on the inside, when everyone else was left in terror in the dark.

If it was possible, Abraxas’ grin widened even further when Blackwood gave a mock curtsey and took his hand. Part of him had expected the other to turn down the challenge - and for once, he would have been genuinely disappointed if he had done so. At the sly insult of his own height, he barked out a laugh as he stared up at the much taller student. “I’m simplywounded,” he drawled in amusement. Apparently the other young man could be a viper in his own right when provoked. Perhaps Abraxas could see just how far that provocation could be pushed.  

The current song had slightly picked up speed, as though the strings and the woodwinds were competing for dominance, while Abraxas led the pair onto the floor, his nimble feet not faltering in the two-step as they circled the edges of the crowd. “Oh, I would never want you to be ‘pigeonholed,’” he quoted dryly. “I don’t often like to follow, as you may have anticipated already. But if you cannot adapt… I suppose it would be acceptable if you lead.” He made no move to adjust his hold on the other’s hand.

“Besides, I’m more interested in you than in what role of the dance you succeed in. So, Blackwood,” he said, every consonant in the name carefully pronounced, “tell me - why is it that you’re here?” He could have asked any one of a number of questions, but the first one to come to mind is what fell from his lips. After all, the question didn’t matter nearly as much as the answer.

[shdwlynx-deactivated20190604]

She wasn’t quite sure how to respond to his comment. Do what you like, apologize to none. How easy life would be–how simple– if that was all she had to think of. To be able to do whatever she wanted without facing consequence and without disappointing. But it wasn’t quite so simple for Seraphina. She had responsibilities, and most of them were to her grandmother. Whatever it was, she did not want to disappoint the woman who had taken her in. 

“I don’t believe it’s that simple. At least, not for everybody,” Seraphina replied, not looking up from her sketchbook as her utensil did its work. She wondered if it was really simple for him, if he just did as he pleased whenever he wanted. 

[malfoyvis-blog]

“It is if you make it so,” Abraxas replied. The only reason living in such a way wasn’t ‘simple’ enough was because others made it so unnecessarily complicated. “You just have to be prepared for the consequences. And if you choose not to care about potential repercussions, there is nothing to worry about. Therein lies the key.” 

A yawn punctuated his last words. He wasn’t normally so talkative, but something about being the subject of an artistic endeavor - however amateur - was rather relaxing. “Be sure to get my nose right, Bones.” 

[isleblack]

a dream is a wish your heart makes / / isla & open

The Great Hall glowed, both from the light of the lanterns and the mass of bodies that clustered inside the room. The warmth swelled with the music, the heat tinting Isla’s cheeks and staining them red and riotous. Not that she minded. Her flush completed her look: she hadn’t pinched her cheeks, expecting that the Hall would be crowded and overheated. Instead, she had chosen to focus on her lips, plumping them with cinnamon oil, before reddening them with a mixture of beeswax and beetroot that she had obtained at a shop in London, hoping that the colour would – in time – match her cheeks. She had spent so much time preparing for this event that it delighted her more to see the final product that to be the final product.

Her dress was beautiful: made from a silk so fine that whenever it caught the light it looked like pale sunshine, whereas in the shadows it turned from golden summer to the dark dust of a springtime rose, the silk changing from cream to pink with even the slightest of movements. Her mask was cream-coloured – silk like her gown, of course – and tinged with strands of pink, its curling edges painted gold. Isla had charmed her hair into ringlets that crashed over her shoulders and her back like water, the curls closest to the sides of her face pinned back with little bundles of pink baby’s-breaths. The flowers – and her décolletage; the space behind her ears; her wrists – were charmed to give off the scent of her perfume – orange blossom and bergamot – rather than their own scent. A necklace hung at her neck, cream-coloured diamonds set in gold, arranged to look like a delicate vine of small, pale flowers were trailing across her collar-bone. Yes, her dress – her outfit – was beautiful, chosen for this fact. She had spent so much of her time, so much of her thoughts, in ensuring that she looked beautiful – as delicate and as darling as the princesses in her books, waiting for her Prince Charming to come and sweep her off her feet.

Like the princesses in her books – like the Twelve Dancing Princesses; like all twelve regal bodies, twirling in and out of motion, spinning in and out of romance – she was going to dance from twilight to dawn. She had arrived on Bilius’ arm – saddened that her friend hadn’t been able to bring his choice, but nonetheless pleased (selfish; shameful) that she had someone to go with. Over the course of the night their paths had seperarted, crossed, then seperated once more, and now she was waiting on the sidelines, waiting to be asked to dance. Waiting, because she thought that it was inevitable that she would be asked to dance; because she had calculated her appearance to ensure that she would be asked. Sure enough, out of the corner of her eye she could see someone coming towards her. She tilted her head in a manner that she thought looked demure and delicate – and then decided that, no, a head-tilt wouldn’t be attractive. She forced herself to clear her expression, fearing that she looked rude or uninviting – or worse, nauseated. She was so focused on looking like herself – and not, please Merlin, nauseated – that had forgotten about the person approaching her, turning to them with a start when she did notice them. “Oh, goodness,” she said, laughter bleeding into her tone. “You scared me! I wasn’t expecting you.”

[malfoyvis-blog]

The night was turning out to be more engaging than Abraxas had expected. He’d set his expectations low, granted, but still, it was nice not to find himself wallowing in boredom. Making his rounds around the Great Hall, it was time to find another target for conversation. Luckily, there were a number of candidates that would do just fine, and soon enough he spotted one: the sweet young Isla Black. 

Although Isla was the Black sibling closest to his own age, she was the only one of them not involved in the Senate, and not even in Slytherin besides. While they’d interacted at the various pureblood gatherings their social circle was party to, he rarely spoke to the girl here at school. It was almost embarrassing, how utterly different she was than the rest of them; and yet something about her was still fundamentally the same. Underneath her innocent exterior, Abraxas just knew that there had to be more, some element of desire for power or control. It was there in the way that she carried herself, in the way that she dressed. If it manifested itself strangely, more the better for it. 

He spent a moment watching her, standing daintily by the edge of the dance floor, no doubt awaiting a potential suitor or prospective dance partner. Her dress was a cream-and-pink concoction of silk and light, striking against the black ringlets of her hair. A waif-like, fae quality shone from her alarmingly sweet face. She looked the part of a proper fairytale princess, from the flowers in her hair to the gentle jewels gleaming across the pale skin of her neck. Abraxas had no doubt that it had taken the girl an immense amount of foresight in order to pull off such a stunning outfit. He felt no genuine attraction to the female body, but he could appreciate the effort put into her appearance - Isla was a girl who knew what she wanted and knew how to get it, evidently. More so than he usually gave the youngest Black credit for, which only leant credence to his belief in some element of depth to her. He was sure that she would break more than one heart at the ball, unless the majority of the student population was suddenly struck blind by some disastrous addition to the autumn punch.

It was high time for a chat. Abraxas slowly floated through the maze of students towards her, watching her carefully all the while. As she turned and laughed in surprise at the sight of him, the sound gentle and bright, Abraxas gave her a playful half-bow. "No, I suppose you wouldn't be. I hope I haven't interrupted anything?" The silver threads of his dress robes gleamed in the candlelight when he reached out to take her delicate hand as if to spin her around. "I saw the illustrious Isla Black from across the room and knew I absolutely must come speak with her. We don't talk nearly enough, you and I."

[aliceanders-blog1-deactivated20]

God help him. A raise of his sight to the heavens, as if he could penetrate the ceiling and see to the actual stars, rather than those twinkling lights sometimes created with magic for comfort, as if he could therefore offer a true prayer to the unseen holiest. Suspicions crept in as to the facial identity of the man behind the mask, but the smoothness of tone and the audacity of speech confirmed it. However, he refused from naming him, even in his mind. No need to provide any more empowerment to the scales of a glimmering emerald snake than already there.

“Respectable and secure, considering the recent altercations.” A shortness in step gained such a similar curtness in replies; the autumnal punch was finished in another swig and the cup so therefore disposed as needed. If there was one thing he did not wish to discuss with someone who was remaining unnamed, it would be the recent altercations. For the opinions offered in repose would be in favour of them, so Luther assumed, and he wished not to have this mar the digression of the evening. “Consider it mostly to have succeeded.”

His STUDIES began again: taking in the look, the eyes, the flask, then back to the shifting of his weight from one leg onto the other, the rot of boredom steaming from his pores. So it was to be anticipated that the higher-class members would find nothing stellar about these happenings; had they not attended such events since their childhood? Snobbery, to be certain, and the finest kind to be brewed, like a fine cognac. He’d know a fine cognac – 

But Luther refused to give into seething hatred. ( The wolf within him. )

At long last, he returned the glare with one of his own - though it was not hard, seeking or challenging in nature. It was merely - there. In existence. It announced: I am here, and I am a morsel on this earth, and you are no better or taller than me, and if you are a flower, then you are one which has grown from disease. And then, simultaneously, it dared to say nothing at all.

“Spontaneity was supposed to be my mistress tonight,” was his answer. “Therefore, little to no preamble of plans were created. However, if opportunities for dancing slide along, then I will be apt to take them.” He returned his body and gaze now to the ballroom itself. “And you? Will you dance this evening?” Now that, in and of itself, may or may not be a challenge. Would you?

[malfoyvis-blog]

Blackwood’s tone was polite and restrained, but Abraxas could sense a veiled distaste beneath his words. It didn’t faze him in the slightest. Often, it was jealousy that spurned such immediate hostility. After all, few could wish to be born into a family of such influence and prosperity. The green flames of envy even still nipped at the feet of some of his own high-society peers - and in Abraxas’ opinion, they could go ahead and burn in the fire of their own making - though he knew that wouldn’t be a cause in Blackwood’s case, as he’d most likely never been within two degrees of Abraxas’ circles. 

Of course, maybe it was something less all-encompassing that had annoyed the other student. Perhaps Abraxas had stepped on one of his friends’ toes in some way, another unsurprising option. Whatever the reason may be, if the way he spoke or carried himself was a bother to someone else, then it was their problem, not his. It was ludicrous to expect him to apologize for who he was or how he chose to act. 

“Yes, I would agree with that assessment. Thank the gods that the school is respectable - otherwise, how would we ever go on?” He clicked his tongue mockingly. “And as for security, well... we all know that no place is truly secure, no matter how much we wish to think so. Not even the strongest of us. Though that’s half the fun, I do admit.” 

He continued to study his company, observe his reactions or lack thereof, until.... ah, there it was, the returning glare he’d been hoping for. But where there was usually a clear message for Abraxas to read, there was instead - nothing, not a clue. The other young man’s eyes were pointed but veiled, unreadable. 

How intriguing. And then:  

Will you dance this evening? 

Abraxas’ sharp grin shone in the candlelight. He knew the other young man probably did not mean it in such a way, but... he couldn’t resist. “Is that a proposition? It is beyond me to turn down such a request.” He held out his hand to the other, still smiling wickedly. “So... will you?” 

[eviebrxnnan-deactivated20160723]

She’d been drinking. Not enough to have her vision blur but still the firewhiskey made it difficult to stand for very long and so she’d spent the better part of the first hour of that godforsaken masquerade ball on a chair. She’d done all she could to make herself look presentable, her long curls were bound in intricate braids and she adorned a silk lavender dress. Yes, she had done her best to get into the spirit of this ball but the great hall only brought back memories of a godless creature ripping through the silence of Matilda’s Vane funeral and all of a sudden she had felt sick. Sick with worry, sick with disgust. This was no way to spend time with a monster on the loose. Somehow she had gotten herself robbed into a dance with a less than skilled partner and the man was twice as inebriated as she was, his hands roaming places they had no business to. “No!” She protested, batting his hands away from where it attempted to crawl under her dress. “I will break all your damned fingers, I swear it.” She hissed, desperate not to draw attention to her but too feeble to hold back the man as he grabbed her waist and she winced in pain.

[malfoyvis-blog]

Abraxas sighed, the masquerade already boring him, but still refusing to leave the festivities lest he miss something intriguing. His sharp gaze took another pass over the dance floor, desperate for entertainment. Nothing stood out to him except - there, near the center of the floor, was a young woman seemingly struggling with her partner. Wondering why, he maneuvered through the throng of students to get a better glimpse of the young lady in question. 

Her dress was a pale silk, and her hair was done up in complex braids. Her footsteps were graceful but off-balance, and not all of it was because of her clumsy dance partner. She’d clearly had at least a touch of something more potent than the autumn punch. Abraxas couldn’t place her. Perhaps he’d recognize her without her mask, but it seemed more likely that she was one of the students he had yet to mentally catalogue - which meant she wasn’t important in the slightest. 

Yet it wasn’t just a lack of talent in her partner that was causing her difficulty. Abraxas could see that the drunken young man’s fingers were pressing into the girl’s side, and though her face was carefully controlled, when she spoke, her words came out in an inaudible hiss. Ah, so the boy - another peasant whom he didn’t deign to know already - was making untoward advances. Abraxas didn’t find this particularly offensive, except... the young man wouldn’t have been making such a bold move if he hadn’t been stupidly intoxicated. He wasn’t in control of his own actions, something which warranted, if not punishment, at least a little light threatening. Plus, it would be amusing.

Abraxas clicked his tongue in mock disapproval and strode towards the pair. “Lovely celebration, isn’t it? What a shame some people are deciding to ruin it with such indecency.” With one hand, he ripped the young man’s wrist off of the girl’s waist, smiling lightly as though they’d been exchanging pleasantries. He continued slowly, each word dripping from the tip of his tongue, the young man’s wrist still in a vice-like grip. “Abraxas Malfoy. I don’t believe we’ve met, but I am certain you’ve heard of me. I doubt you want to become better acquainted. You’ve made an absolutely terrible first impression.” His smile grew icy as he spoke, but his casual tone never wavered. “But of course, I shall leave that decision to you.” 

He practically flung the boy’s wrist aside before spinning around to face the young woman. “Whatever happened to decency, hmmm? It seems as though you should have picked a better date.” 

[shdwlynx-deactivated20190604]

Feel like doing. She felt a sting from his words, despite knowing it wasn’t true. But in this moment, she supposed that was exactly what she had done, without taking a second to think if the person would feel comfortable or not with her sketching. She had done the act before–drawing a person–but it was always at more of a distance. So, either the person was aware she was sketching them or they simply never found out. She supposed that was bad, but it was her little secret. “No. But I admit, I am at fault here.”

Seraphina shifted in her seat, considering the young man’s proposition. She was not a big fan of leaving her work unfinished, bu finishing would mean showing her work to him. Never had she shown her work to anyone–except for her grandmother, who she did not have the nerve to say no to. But then again, what were the chances that she would ever see him again anyway? Give him a quick glance and take it away–simple. “All right, I can do that. I will show you my work when I’m done with it.” She moved a little closer to get a better look, and began to sketch once more.

[malfoyvis-blog]

“How disappointing,” he replied with his standard monotone. “On the contrary, I wish you had answered with the positive. Do what you like, apologize to none.” He opened just one eye to casually take in the young woman’s appearance. No, she certainly didn’t seem like someone who would forgo the formalities of society. What a shame. That would have been a pleasant surprise. “You’re at least halfway there, I suppose.”

She finally began sketching again, Abraxas’ lips trembling as he bit back an amused smile at how seriously she seemed to be taking their arrangement. Either draw or not, but don’t make such a fuss about it all. He didn’t quite see the point of sketching, though he assumed it must be at least somewhat enjoyable or she wouldn’t be doing it, presumably. “Be sure to let me know when you’ve finished.” As he wasn’t actually vital to the completion of the girl’s project, he completely put her out of his mind as he went back to absorbing the balmy sunshine. 

[malfoyvis-blog]

abraxas malfoy aesthetic (2/?) --> the autumn masquerade

[aliceanders-blog1-deactivated20]

Contamination began its eruption through small openings, seeping through like poison, and so it manifested in the rush of embarrassment at being overheard. Perhaps Luther would not have reacted in such an extreme nature, with ( thanks be to God above ) most of the redness kept concealed by the arches of his mask at the drawled retort, if he had not recognised the drawn upwards stance and the proud arch of shoulders. He did not recognise name, but he did not need name to know privilege - someone who encompassed himself in it, thrived in it, and did not make qualms towards those who were not immersed just as he was.

Yes, he knew such individuals, and their stances, and their opinions, and their smells. A burning in the nostrils it was, a sort of odd copper’s odour, similar to blood but - cleaner. Almost as if it was a mocking testament to how the liquid in their veins flowed the same colour.

So long as the circling did not continue. A wolf did not like being beneath the gaze of a vulture. And his teeth were sharper than most claws, and quicker if he let them be.

“You speak the truth,” he admitted, keeping the tremor out of his voice. He straightened from his somewhat incoherent slouch as the other came to stand beside him, appearing much in the manner of apparition ( although without the grand sound announcing his arrival. ) And he would give much for some semblance of relaxation which couldn’t be found in these punches. “In their want to keep us from harm, they prevent us from experience the better substances.”

He looked to the bottle of cognac, to the smile, to the eyes ( dead ), and back to the bottle. As was in his nature, Luther was quick with his studies of people; this was no different. “Tempting, to be certain, but I will forego it. I wish not to chance the dulling of the senses, no matter how much more celestial it would taste compared to this.”

Perhaps it would have been in an act of good faith and potential ties to accept, but he could not bring himself to do it when he thought of what had occurred. 

[malfoyvis-blog]

It was obvious from the other student’s body language that Abraxas’ presence was both expected and not particularly wanted. Yet he remained unconcerned. He would do what he wanted and talk to whom he wanted - and any targets of his attention should be grateful he was willing to be civil this evening.  

"Truth does find its way to my lips on occasion,” he replied loftily as Blackwood straightened next to him. “And of course. The school must prove to overbearing parents that this is a respectable place of education, after all.” Though Abraxas was certain most high-class parents were fully aware of their children’s own capacity for debauchery and incontinence, as long as they were discreet. Rules were not intended for them to follow except for on a strictly exterior basis. 

The other student spurned his suggestion, which would be somewhat of a disappointment if Abraxas had any stake at all in someone else’s enjoyment of the masquerade. “You cannot say I did not offer.” With a sly twist of his wrist, he downed the rest of it, before tapping it with his wand so it would fill up once again, the original bottle safe and continually depleting in his bedchamber. Dulling the senses, he had said. An individual overly concerned with keeping their head clear tended to be either someone dreadfully boring, someone with a secret to keep, or someone with control issues. Abraxas studied Blackwood unblinkingly, trying to determine which might fit best. 

Personally, he didn’t care much about losing his own faculties, at least not at the moment. An element of chaos could only serve to enhance the evening. 

“So,” Abraxas continued impassively, now facing the dance floor but with his eyes still solidly fixed on the other student under his mask. “Do you plan on sipping punch alone all evening, or will you be partaking in the dancing?”

[shdwlynx-deactivated20190604]

He closed his eyes as he replied to her apology, as if he didn’t care much for it. She was staring at him out of pure wonderment when he made his comment on staring, promptly making Seraphina drop her eyes to her lap. But then he mentioned something about being ‘forward’ and her eyes snapped back up, her mouth gaping in offense. “I was not being forward. It was nothing like that–” She was more embarrassed than before now, her cheeks flushing a slight red against her tan skin. “You just–your posture against the light was good and I just felt like drawing it.” Her mouth shut as she realized that that comment probably did not help her case. Seraphina, you bumbling idiot. But she did not want to give him the satisfaction. So instead, after a moment of composing herself, she said, “If you would like me to, I can finish the sketch. Otherwise, I can leave.”

[malfoyvis-blog]

Abraxas twitched his nose purposefully as she continued to stutter and search for an explanation, her cheeks flushing even brighter by the minute. Her indignant response to his accusation was gratifying, more so than he had anticipated. “Do you often do everything you ‘feel like’ doing?” Stretching his arms with the grace of a feline, he rolled his head to face her once more. 

“It makes no difference to me whether you finish it or not,” he shrugged, an airy grin settling on his lips. On another day, the situation might have gone much differently - but today, he didn’t feel particularly strongly either way. It would be more enjoyable to see what she chose to do. “If you do keep drawing, I’ll warn you that I’ll ask to see it, so you must do my face justice if you try. What do you say?” 

[shdwlynx-deactivated20190604]

She had lost track of time while sketching her picture, focusing her eyes on the paper and occasionally glancing up to look at the man she was drawing. She was trying t pay attention to detail, getting down all of his features to perfection. Taking a second’s break to glance at her work, Seraphina had to admit she was happy with how the image was coming along. 

Her brown eyes looked up again to the man, a smile one her face, when she realized he was looking at her–speaking to her. Immediately, Seraphina’s hand froze of her journal, eyes going just a little wide–as if she had been caught red handed doing something terrible. It might as well, seeing as she hadn’t actually asked permission before drawing him. But then again, it wasn’t like she planned on sharing with anyone. She rarely ever did. 

Seraphina cleared her throat, her eyes quickly falling back to the journal and quickly closing it. “I–I am sorry. I was just–the sun looked nice–I probably–” She stopped talking, closed her eyes, and let out a breath. The young woman was obviously embarrassed. “I was sketching…you. I am sorry, I’ll leave you alone.” 

[malfoyvis-blog]

Abraxas caught just the moment that the girl realized she’d been caught in the act, her eyes widening ever-so-slightly. Her sketching didn’t bother him in the slightest, of course - he was aware that his appearance was rather striking - but that didn’t mean he couldn’t poke fun at her.

“Embarrassed, are you? No need to stutter,” he replied, letting his eyes drift shut lazily once again. “Though staring at someone so blatantly…” Abraxas clicked his tongue as if to scold her. “It’s a bit forward, don’t you think? But of course, now you must finish, or it will have all been a waste.”

[aliceanders-blog1-deactivated20]

The dress robes had, of course, been the most expensive of the offerings for this place. In fact, it had been to the marketed price of Luther telling his charges to forget it, that such a piece of attire was not worth the exorbitant tag, not when even the top tier dress robes of the lowest class could not compare to those of the higher. He would never forgive himself if the nuns had to spend the next several weeks recollecting what had been lost on frivolities; even with the addition of the last of his pleasure-based earnings, it wouldn’t have been enough.

Then, he had discovered it in an parcel delivered by owls - in the common room, waiting for him on the bed. To whom it had belonged, he did not know, and perhaps it was only slightly out of fashion, but it was nicer than what he could have afforded new in a shoppe’s recesses and the back rooms of the forbidden wardrobe. And so he had donned it with gratitude, thanking both God and the unseen sender ( who had not included a note, and it made him wonder whether it was the nuns having discovered something as a surprise, or one of the professors assisting him ) for this lavishness - as it was, indeed, lavishness to him.

Now armed inside of it and protected with his gentleness, he perched himself near the table of refreshments, the beverages and hor d’ouevres, swallowing at the sight of them. This was more than he had sometimes obtained as rations in an entire week. He would refrain from gorging himself; not that he would be able to, considering how tightly his stomach was wound in knots. He knew not what he waited for, or if he waited for anything, but he remained with a mask of gold and black settled on his face ( one he had transfigured from magic and parchment ) and stood tall at the side of the table. Perhaps his position was to be sentinel tonight.

However, temptation won out - and he found himself with a small glass of the Autumn Punch. In partaking of it, it bubbled against his tongue, and he blinked in surprise. “This is,” he murmured to himself, lacking notice of any potential company, “quite ambrosial.”

[malfoyvis-blog]

Tugging absentmindedly on the ends of his sleeves, Abraxas strode into the Great Hall, glancing around in only mild intrigue at the goings-on of the masquerade. His dress robes, jet black silk, the same shade as his dark hair, with silver trimmings, fit perfectly against his body. A similarly black mask with silver and green jewels around the eyes adorned his face. No use in supporting the pretense of anonymity. Only the feeble-minded would be duped by a simple mask, after all. 

The masquerade element of the festivities was one that he didn’t see the point of, though maybe it added an element of thrill for some. The ball’s true purpose was to ellicit some measure of change, to celebrate the end of the darkness and the hope of the future. Nonsense, of course, but it amused Abraxas to watch the other students either take heart from such an overly-optimistic mindset or smile and nod behind their masks, all the while knowing that in truth, real darkness had not yet begun to descend upon them. 

He could applaud their valiant effort to live in the moment, however. 

Making his way over to the refreshments seemingly stock-piled upon the long table in the hall, Abraxas smoothly snatched up an hor d’oeurve at random and popped it into his mouth. It was not bad. Not particularly impressive, but not bad. He circled the area as he swallowed - much more interesting than the nourishment was the variety students milling about the table. One in particular was someone he had only ever seen in passing. Blackwood, was his name, or so he thought. He looked out of place, standing alone by the table, sipping a small glass of the offered punch, his posture and stance telling Abraxas in a quick once-over that the student wasn’t used to such lavish events. 

He circled closer, hoping to stay under the other student’s radius while still within hearing. At last, the young man spoke - and when he did, Abraxas appeared at his side. “Ambrosial? I doubt it,” he drawled. “The only liquids truly divine have no doubt been banned from our consumption. Luckily, I had the foresight to bring my own.” He slipped a tiny bottle of cognac out of the pocket hidden inside of one of his sleeves and took a sip, not bothering to even pour it into a glass. “Care for a taste?” He cocked his head, his cheery smile at odds with his cold, calculating gaze.