a'fire

knockturn's finest. hold on to that firm belief that your soul is a'fire and forget your petty crimes now hold firm as the raging sea beats at your door stay there 'till you can't take no more.

[mundxngus]

commanderlestrange‌:

Mundungus Fletcher was a curious man. She had seen him plenty, lingering in the shadows of Knockturn Alley as if he ruled the place. A crown might suit him down here, she supposed. People seemed to know him, to the point where he’d managed to attract even her attention where most people simply slipped under her radar. Knockturn had taken on a life of its own over the past few years, and Mundungus Fletcher seemed to be part of the furniture now. 

The basement smelt horrendous, as if it hadn’t been cleaned for months. But a part of Bellatrix could see the appeal as soon as she set eyes on the situation itself. It was primal, vicious, fuelled only by the most basic parts of a human. That was the beauty of muggle fighting, she supposed. There was no thought about the best spell to go next or how to block a potentially deadly curse; instead, it was a simple case of hit or be hit.

“Poor Billy. Tell me, do you have all of your teeth? Or have you fallen victim to the tooth bucket?” Bellatrix hummed, a small glance over her shoulder to see if anyone had followed them down the stairs. Glancing back and checking her surroundings felt as natural as anything these days, and if there were ever a place to do so it was Knockturn Alley. For all she had known, Mundungus Fletcher had been leading her to slaughter. 

Bellatrix passed the galleons over to Mundungus, lightening her purse only slightly. Bellatrix nodded as Mundungus vanished and turned her attention firmly upon the brawl that was about to start. A few minutes later, a bell rang and the two men began punching and kicking at each other in a show of brutality that had her heart racing and her blood pumping. Bellatrix found herself taking a few steps closer to the edge of the ring, entranced by the show before her. 

It didn’t take long before Twigs was knocked out cold, and Bella was sure she’d seen a tooth fly from his mouth. A good night for Billy, she thought. Bellatrix scanned the crowd for Dung, slipping to his side once more. “Betting on the underdog doesn’t pay off, so it seems.”

“Me? Oh, I never pick a fight I can’t win,” Mundungus replied with a toothy salesman’s smile in Bellatrix’s direction that seemed designed to show off his distinct lack of missing ones. “I know what people around here would do with a person’s teeth or bits of bones if they got their hands on them. Doesn’t bear thinking about what Billy would do with a molar or two.”

 And the realities of what that tooth bucket was for had never really been something Mundungus had wanted to contemplate in great detail. He was a deeply suspicious man by nature. Still, he accepted his gold and moved onward into the crowd, circling through the sour stench of booze and sweat and blood as the crowd revved up in anticipation of what was to come and waited out the frenzy as the match began and swiftly ended with a predictable knockout.

He collected his winnings from those gathered around him, divvying up he numbers swiftly before Bellatrix emerged, again, from the crowd to stand at his side. That eerie hush that seemed to follow on her heels was curiously absent in a crowd so dense, as if they hadn’t noticed exactly who was in their midsts. 

“Very rarely,” he agreed at her summation of the event, smile tucked into the corner of his lip, “But a safe bet is a boring bet. Twigs has the look about him — he’ll probably jump his opponent in the alley at the end of the night and take a tooth of his own. You don’t fancy having a go, do you?” He nodded, half-joking, toward the ring where another match was being set up already, the mottled bruises colouring the fighter’s faces a fair indication they weren’t new to the ring. 

[mundxngus]

alexanott‌:

Like that cheery cunt on the radio. Alex grinned, nodding his head. Being a minor celebrity was great fun sometimes. “Exactly like that cheery cunt on the radio. I’m flattered you listen to me, though, I’m not sure you fit into my normal listener demographic.” He was a celebrity out in Diagon Alley, but his show certainly didn’t target those that frequented Knockturn Alley. Alex was sure his boss would be pleased to know that they were reaching new listeners, at least. 

“Did it really?” Alex played along, looking down at the seat he was sitting on. “Here I was thinking it was rats, when it was dirty upholstery all along. Trust the muggles to get it wrong. What other secrets does this place hold? Murders, I’m betting? Affairs? Illicit deals and broken vows? I’d love to read a book on the history of this place. No. I’d love to see Rita Skeeter try and write the book on the history of this place.” That woman was like a bull in a china shop, and he doubted the patrons would be too happy to have her poking around.

Go straight to the source. Alex raised a questioning eyebrow – even behind his naive act, he was curious to know what this clearly dodgy man considered the smartest form of protection. And when he wrinkled his nose at the image of the man bleeding out of his eyes, it was an entirely genuine reaction. 

“Merlin. Really? That’s — intense.” Sure, Alex was a Death Eater, and probably a murderer to boot, but bleeding out of the eyeballs sounded like a lot. But the mention of Kent had his ears pricking up. “In Kent, you say? That’s where we’re from. Maybe I know the guy…” Alex would never turn down the opportunity to get a useful name – although he did prefer the thought of keeping his eyeballs blood free.

“What’s your normal listener demographic?” An inquisitive tilt of his head echoed the sentiment, as if he was actually interested in the answer and not just the sound of his own voice. “Let me guess; pension cards and a lingering smell of public transport and lavender oil?” 

Lazily spinning on his stool to face towards his neighbour, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as if trying to determine exactly how much investment this particular cheery cunt required of him. He had nothing but time tonight and three glasses of whiskey’s worth of bad decision making in the bank, he supposed he may as well spend it. “You want to know the history of this fine establishment you only have to ask, mate, no need to have the likes of Skeeter poking her nose around other people’s business when Corvus over there has been around for most of it,” his eyes drifted to a weathered pile of rags that seemed to be breathing at a seat at the corner of the bar and added, louder, “Haven’t you Cor, you ancient salty fuck?”

A rustle of motion followed before a weathered hand emerged, middle finger up, in their direction.

Mundungus’s smile broke wider across his face.

“Effective though, isn’t it?” he replied cheerfully, “You’d think twice about going knocking on the wrong door if you’d heard that’s what was what, wouldn’t you?” And there was a lot of door knocking going around lately, the kind of which Mundungus would very much like to avoid. It wouldn’t hurt to let a few curious ears overhear said precautions. “Big fellow, built like a bull, goes by Bell. Hard to miss on account of being a ginger but I don’t hold that against him. Works for Gringotts, most of the time, but does some under the table cursebreaking on the side, for the right price.”

[mundxngus]

unspeakableprewett‌:

Fabian shook his head, wishing it was in resignation rather than irritation. Not that he’d expected Mundungus to take it seriously, but he couldn’t apply humour to this situation. “I’m more concerned about the lack of existence now. You’ve really not heard anything? No whispers in Knockturn?”  

The thing was, if Dumbledore was in Death Eater hands, they’d know by now, surely. It was the kind of thing You-Know-Who would have been certain to publicize, a prize beyond all measure. That left few other options that made sense - no options that made sense, in fact.  With no hope of a rescue mission, no way to plan a rescue mission, they were simply going to have to do without Dumbledore. 

That was a thought better handled with whiskey. Fabian watched in appreciation as Mundungus poured him a glass. He couldn’t say he’d ever expected to choose the wildcard in the Order as a drinking companion, but war did make for strange allies. He assumed that if Dung could be counted on in anything, it was knowing his alcohol. “Oh, sure,” Fabian agreed, with irony, “You sound like me talking about divination. At least I’m not likely to cut off a finger scrying.” He was never going to give up on his belief in the powers of scrying, but he’d developed a sense of humour about his own never-ending failures all the same. For a moment he considered reading tea leaves for Mundungus, but on second thought, most of the questions he had about the man were better left unanswered. “I’m going to regret asking this, but you keep mentioning it, so please tell me you’re not the one who stabbed him.” 

Halfway through the act of bringing his glass to his mouth, Fabian’s face froze at the mention of his other half. Once, Fabian would have described Gideon that way with an easy smile. Now, he bristled more than the question really deserved, “I haven’t the faintest idea where he is. We’re not attached at the hip. Nor can I read his mind without several years worth of study of Legilimency that, unfortunately, I don’t have time for at the moment. You’ve never seen the two fo us together?” he finished, squinting at Dung. That was a sad indictment of the current state of the Prewett twins’ relationship, unless Dung was messing with him. The fact that the two possibilities were equally likely was another sad truth.  “I assure you we both exist. Twins run in the family. As for the evil question, we’ve yet to produce a dark wizard - unless you count Aunt Muriel, which admittedly, you should.” 

“There’re always whispers in Knockturn. Not the ones you’re looking for though.” The sharper edges of Mundungus’s smile turned, momentarily, before with practiced nonchalance he resumed pouring glasses and dragging a chair out from the kitchen table to drop into it, a cryptic gleam to his eye as he studied the contents of his glass like it might contain all the answers that Fabian was fishing for.  Go fish. “If that old codger don’t want to be found he won’t be. ‘s all manner of places a man can hide in this world if he don’t want to be seen.” 

Not that Albus Dumbledore had ever been what Mundungus would call subtle, he imagined with enough grease to loosen the wheels that someone would start talking — Mundungus just didn’t care much to do the asking. He’d leave that to the aurors.

And whether the noble game of stabberscotch was comparable to the inexact art of scrying, Mundungus could hardly say, but an extended amount of time spent at The Starry Prophesier had taught him that divination wasn’t a game to be played with. Crystals and mirrors and blood-magic all of it. Scratching at the back of his neck like it might chase the ghost tickling at his spine away he sunk another mouthful of whiskey. It wasn’t superstition if the paranoia had always served you well. “Smart folks don’t go playing around with scrying bowls,” he replied, shifting uncomfortably in his chair and spinning the bottlecap from the whiskey back and forth across the knuckles of one hand, “Stabbings aren’t the worst that happens to people who mess with all of that.”

His smile broadened momentarily, breaking through the shadow of superstition and refusing to confirm or deny any allegations of who was responsible for the most recent of stabbings, instead focusing on the way Fabian bristled at the mention of his brother. Dissent in the ranks. Interesting. “’s all very convenient isn’t it?” he replied airily, slouching back in his chair with a lazy cat’s smile and a glimmer of something sharp in his eyes, “You’re here, he isn’t — even though he claims to live here.” There was a theatrical lowering of his voice as he shifted forward to add, “I’m onto you, Prewett. Cross my heart and Handsome Jack’s precarious grasp on life, you haven’t got me fooled.”

[muffinpines]

[mundxngus]

archivist-bones‌:

Amelia’s righteous anger never seemed to move Mundungus and in the dimly lit glow of this crowded, stuffy room, it suddenly seemed a fool’s errand once again. The man never seemed to be able to have a serious and honest discussion about anything. Sometimes, it was as amusing as it was frustrating. “Can’t say I’ve seen a proper one, no.” Her voice was bitter and cynical, though punctuated with a snort, as if she had found something at least a little funny about his words. She glanced at Mundungus momentarily, shaking her head before turning her attention back to the mourners gathering in groups throughout the room.

It took a moment for realization to dawn on her. A furrowed brow morphing into a look of understanding about this timeshare in the North Sea. It wasn’t a big jump to assume Mundungus was speaking about Azkaban. No one had ever seen fit to let Amelia know the types of things the man got up to ( besides gambling and petty theft, of course ). She had been given the same vague warning in the beginning about watching her pockets and valuables around the man. It was tempting to ask him what he would end up in Azkaban for but there was no telling the answer Mundungus would give her. “How kind of them.” she answered, draining her cup of the remaining tea infused whiskey before adding, “I never knew the three of you were such good friends.”

Amelia shot Mundungus a pointed look, as if to ask him if he were being completely serious or not. “Yes, so I assume you’re an ancient wizard now, old enough to rival Dumbledore? I should’ve known..” Amelia sassed, “You must tell me what beautifying potion you’re using then…Maybe it’s the fountain of youth?”

She had been waiting on another evasive maneuver on Mundungus’s part when she suddenly spied Edgar across the room. Finally. Amelia felt a wave of relief wash over her. She could finally leave this memorial in the dust and go home. Lock herself in her bedroom for the foreseeable future.  “It’s been fun.” A lie or maybe not a lie? Amelia couldn’t be certain. It was the most pleasant and positive she’d felt after a conversation with Mundungus Fletcher but she wouldn’t have described it as fun. “Thanks for the whiskey.” With that final sentiment, Amelia rudely thrust her empty cup into Mundungus’s free hand ( whether he wanted it or not, she was going to give it to him ). Disappearing into the throngs of mourners to grab her brother and catch the Knight Bus before it got much later.

end.

[mundxngus]

singvlarlygifted‌:

Lily listened to Mundungus with gentle curiousity. He was an interesting man, despite the many qualities that made her think there was always something off about him. He was still her fellow Order member. He was still fighting the good fight and Lily liked to focus on that fact and that he always seemed to know what to say to make things interesting or entertaining. In the kind of event they were attending, something harmlessly interesting or entertaining like a story would serve her well. She was tense and sad and every time someone passed by her with the cheese plate she felt weirdly nauseous.

He seemed to catch himself with his language and Lily gave him a small, amused smile - the kind a mother might give their harmlessly misbehaving child after they’d amended their behavior. Being James’ wife and knowing blokes like Sirius, Remus and Peter (just to begin), she’d never been one to chastise for bad language use. But over use of bad language in less than two sentences during an argument? Yes. Certainly. As it was, she only found Mundungus to be near endearing for that moment.

She frowned thoughtfully and shrugged at his question. “It’s just the result of misunderstandings and misinterpretations. The fact anyone can believe them to be omen of deaths or misfortune is beyond me. They’re just birds.” Lily said in a-matter-of-fact. Lily smiled a little as Mundungus continued to explain his fascination with the creatures and saw good reason for it. It wasn’t until he’d begun to finish speaking that her smile started to taper off. “That’s… quite the metaphor, Mundungus,” she observed, not failing to catch the meaning of it all. Mundungus was not someone to cross but she had no intention of ever making dealings with him. “Ever thought of being a poet?” The smile returned.

They’re just birds. And he was just a bartender and she was just a muggleborn, at least in a certain light, but people were rarely just the sum of their most obvious parts. “And the closest living relatives to dinosaurs,” he replied with an amused tip of his head, draining the last of his tea and crumpling the plastic cup in his hand with a wrinkle of his nose. The whiskey fared far better alone. “But everyone has their secrets, don’t they?”

He liked Lily, better than most of the Order members (who eyed him a little too closely like he might just be off with their wallets if they weren’t too careful, and they’d be right to think so), but liking someone rarely correlated to trusting someone in Mundungus’s world. As it frequently happened, the people he liked the most tended to be the least trustworthy. He’d yet to determine whether Lily was one of that ilk.

He and the people who populated the Order tended to be like oil and water.

“My gran always told me I had the gift of the gab,” he replied with a sniff, smudging a thumb across one shiny button on his cuff before methodically rolling his sleeve back down his arm, rebuttoning the cuff with swift practiced movements, “Though I can’t say she thought much of my poetry. I recall the words ‘stop talking so much shite.’”

Which was, he supposed, fairly sound advice in most avenues of his life. He absently tossed his crumpled plastic cup in the direction of the buffet table, dipping his head towards Lily with a curiously sharp smile as he pushed away from the wall he’d been holding up and offered, “Keep an eye out for the crows, Evans. Even the friendly ones have a nasty bite on them, but if you’re ever in need.”

He sniffed again dismissively, shrugging expressively before digging his hands into his pockets he turned to head back into the crowd of mourners. 

[mundxngus]

james-pottr‌:

Wrinkling his nose at the nickname of ‘Jimmy’, something that no one in the history of ever had ever called him, James shakes his head in slight amusement. Prongs was a self-chosen nickname, and Jamie was something only his parents and Lily called him, but Jimmy? That wasn’t something he really wanted to be okay with. “What can I say, my mother had exquisite taste and an exceptional budget,” he says, knowing that telling Mundungus not to do something, like calling someone a stupid name, was just prime for him to keep doing it.

But he was glad that Mundungus had gotten some good out of it. There was only so much good china that he and Lily needed, let along could fit in their cottage, and if selling it could benefit the Order more than it would benefit Dung’s own pockets, then James was fine with whatever needed to happen. Even if it had hurt considerably to hand it over in the first place. “Can’t say I’ve met many myself. Hanging out in the wrong places apparently.”

Listening to Dung speak, James is overcome with the urge to laugh. Despite his attempts to fight it back, a small smile manages to escape, but he allows it to pass. He truly hadn’t heard anything so Mundungus as his apparent plans for his own funeral, and James can’t help but think that some of it sounds remarkably like what he himself would want. At least in terms of going out with a ‘shebang’. “I plan for there to be a full fireworks show at my own, personally. And a ceremonial firewhiskey shot aspect of the mourning.”

Quirking a brow at the thought of Mundungus Fletcher presenting a eulogy for him, James feels his interest peak, turning to face the other man head-on. “And what would be said during said eulogy? Just out of curiosity?”

Exquisite taste and an exceptional budget, two things that nobody had ever accused Mundungus Fletcher of having, but he could feed off the dead as well any other vulture he’d encountered and Euphemia Potter had left behind a remarkable legacy to profit from. Thank the Lord for James Potter’s dead parents.

“Or the right ones, mate,” he replied far too sunnily for such a gloomy room, eyeing his fingernails with a carelessness that belied the solemnity of the occasion. This entire service lay somewhere miserably in the in-between of too gloomy and not gloomy enough to be a true affair — Mundungus had always appreciated the theatricality of a good church funeral. Memorial services always felt somewhat closer to lip service than good old fashioned wailing and widow’s veils.

“Oh,” he sighed, slipping his flask into his jacket pocket, “Something along the lines of, ‘Dearly beloved, we’re gathered here today to celebrate the life of Jimmy-Jam Potter, a man of good moral standing who was not so cheap as to hold out on the whiskey at his own funeral unlike the cheap cunts who hosted this one’,” Mundungus paused, nose wrinkling briefly in consideration before he dipped his head in a decisive, “Amen.”

With a dip of his head that might have been meant as a bow, his eyes caught suddenly, uneasily, on a glimpse of a face in the crowd he certainly didn’t want to see and his smile sharpened, eyes darting uneasily to all corners for an exit before he clapped a hand to James’s shoulder and began a swift evasive manoeuvre behind a witch with a voluminous hat, resplendent with feathers. “Good lad, Jim, catch you up again soon, yeah?”

It took precisely two steps past the shoulders of the witch and her companion into the crowd before, for all intents and purposes, Mundungus had vanished into the crowd.

[mundxngus]

a belated merry christmas, @ofcrouch !

[f-rottage]

                      𝔪𝔶 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔲𝔫𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔢𝔡 …                                                               𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖞𝖙𝖍 𝖎𝖘 𝖚𝖓𝖒𝖆𝖉𝖊

if nothing else, i am your j u d a s, your s c h i s m, wine stolen at your     altar

the penumbra cast from your waxing aphelion,

i am your half-way eclipse, an e l l i p s e of ghosts fading from celadon       homes

dear burlesque angel:  i did not m e a n to damn us like this, but

i found god  in a liquor store without you in it

{ a gilderoy lockhart moodboard inspired by hale appleman } happy holidays @mundxngus ! 

[mundxngus]

— out here the good girls die

a dustland fairytale, the killers / vienna, billy joel / every little thing she does is magic, sleeping at last / songbird, fleetwood mac / ordinary world, joy williams / california dreamin’, sia / dreams, bastille ft gabrielle aplin / across the universe, AURORA / only the good die young, billy joel. 

merry christmas, @alicelcngbottcm​ !

[mundxngus]

Merry Christmas, @alicelcngbottcm​  !

[mundxngus]

commanderlestrange‌:

Bellatrix listened with amusement as Mundungus described his ideal wedding, quirking her brow slightly. “I had a summer wedding. Almost a year to the day that I finished Hogwarts. There were a few complications, but considering my family, it was all planned to each little minute detail. I’m sure some of the silver got pilfered,” Bellatrix hummed. Her wedding day had gone in a blur, distancing herself mentally from it because the man she was stood beside wasn’t the man she’d wanted. “Your wedding sound rather chaotic….but surely more entertaining than a sit down dinner and the pressure of your wedding being the ‘event of the year’.”

A snicker fell from her lips at the idea of absconding from her wedding. She’d basically absconded from her marriage itself within the first year, not that Rodolphus had minded too much. “Would you aim to become the King of Morocco? At least you have some ambition, Fletcher….you just have to find a wife who has some beautiful bridesmaids now.”

Following Mundungus closely, her hawk-like eyes didn’t miss the way he pilfered someone’s coin purse - and her grip tightened on her own. Whether he would be brave enough to steal from Bellatrix Lestrange….well, that was yet to be seen. “Does this happen every night?” Bellatrix asked curiously, her brows furrowed into a frown at the mention of muggle rules. Death Eaters were spending their evenings here, beating each other up rather than advancing the cause. Some of them needed whipping into shape….but in the absence of her husband, their lieutenant, law and order within their ranks had become more lax.

Bellatrix stepped down into the basement, noting the way that the hum of noise quietened at her presence again. A smirk played on her lips as she found a space near the front of the ring. A man she recognised as a fresh recruit had looked up at her with a yelp of surprise before scarpering away, leaving a prime viewing spot. Bellatrix reached into her purse, drawing out ten galleons. Looking at the two fighters, Bellatrix nodded towards the scrawny looking one. “Ten galleons on him to win.”

Bellatrix’s actual wedding sounded about as lively as the memorial service they’d both escaped, which, Mundungus supposed, was par for the course for every pure blood event of the season he’d ever managed to sneak his way into. Boring enough to make the living wish they were dead.

“Oh, I’d like to get my hands on his crown,” he agreed amiably, as if the two things were one and the same. Mundungus’s ambitions had always sparkled just out of reach.

He knew better than to assume there was some sparkling paradise out there where he’d finally retire like his father had always been banging on about, when he was a kid and be satisfied in living off his ill-gotten gains. A thief was never truly satisfied when the real thrill was always in the thieving.

“Most nights,” he replied absently, patting at the newfound weight in his pocket before lazily descending the stairs after her into the gloomy basement, stiflingly hot despite the wintery conditions outside and sharp with the smell of sweat and and ingrained blood. “Some nights it’s just Billy down here sweeping up the teeth for his bucket.”

The overflow of bodies had fallen silent with her arrival but Mundungus paid the nervous crowd little mind as he weaved through them, flipping through the pages of a book that he pulled from his pocket. He followed her eyes to the fighter she’d indicated, eyebrows hitching faintly at the scrawny specimen who was all chicken-legs and weak elbows. “A fine choice,” he replied diplomatically as he scrawled the bet into his ledger, “Ten on Twigs.”

Said Twigs turned his head, as if he were considering objecting to the nickname, before catching sight of Bellatrix in close proximity and promptly changing his mind about speaking. It was a curious phenomena, one that Mundungus supposed he understood. Reputations like the Lestranges made ripples even in Knockturn’s murky waters. He inclined his head towards Bellatrix absently, tapping the end of a pen against the paper before offering, “Time to rustle up some last minute bets before the bell. Enjoy the show,” and slipping off into the crowd to resume coaxing money out of the spectators.

[mundxngus]

archivist-bones‌:

That crooked smile made Amelia consider for a moment what Mundungus might think of her. It wasn’t a crime to be an opinionated woman, though many men she knew liked to pretend that it was. That Amelia’s desire to express her opinions on things that actively affected her was somehow strange and off-putting. “Do you think I’m some sort of battle-axe who enjoys the sound of her own voice?” Amelia queried, a tiny bit of self-consciousness creeping into the tone of her voice, “It’s not a crime for a woman to be opinionated, though I know it’s hard for men to accept that we can menstruate and think at the same time.” 

A tactless comment, certainly, but Amelia wasn’t one for patience or understanding tonight. She took another sip of tea infused whiskey, the lines of her forehead wrinkling as she considered why she even cared what Mundungus might think about her. He certainly didn’t seem to give two sickles about how she viewed him. If he did, the man would probably keep some of his more tasteless behavior under his hat. Tell her the truth about something, anything in his life, instead of going on and on about fairy rings and changelings.

Amelia listened, this time with rapt attention, watching with curious eyes as Mundungus spun another colorful yarn about his family. Gazing down at his nail beds, seemingly nonchalant about the whole affair. He always seemed that way. How nice it must be to care about nothing else but your next financial venture. “I don’t suppose I’ve ever seen you look uncomfortable, Mundungus.” Amelia offered, shrugging with her back still pressed against the wall, “Maybe when Moody is feeling especially nasty and on your case…I just always assumed that was more irritation than actual discomfort.”

“Maybe not a retirement home but some kind of home.” A home for compulsive liars and thieves. The Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo’s, maybe? A home for people who were insane enough to think a raucous chorus of Bones, Bones, Bones would make Amelia want to go anywhere near them. “Plus, you’re hardly my elder.” Amelia tutted as she tried to recall just how old he was. Twenty-seven, twenty-nine? Somewhere around there. Not even into middle age yet and suddenly speaking like he was as old as Elphias had been.

Mundungus, who was well acquainted with the ins and outs and loopholes and leeways of exactly what constituted an actual crime in their odd little world, cracked a wider smile at the indignant rage that had begun to build in his companion, head tilting faintly as he considered how far along the stages of grief misdirected anger was again. Somewhere between whiskey-drunk and talking to criminals in dark corners, he supposed.

“I wouldn’t’ve asked for your opinion if I didn’t want to hear it, Bones,” he offered after allowing a few moments for her anger to percolate, nose wrinkling as he added, “Though I don’t see much wrong with enjoying the sound of your own voice,” he certainly did, “Or being a battle-axe for that matter.” And since when had Amelia Bones or any of the Ministry types who made up the backbone of the Order given one whit about what he thought of them. “Have you ever seen a proper battle axe? Right impressive. Could take the head off a man with one swing.” He’d nicked one once from a display case at a Castle in Leeds and it had been passed around the Wyvern that night with great aplomb. It still sat prominently behind the bar like a warning to all who dared enter there. Here There Be Thieves.

And he could spin enough yarn to turn into gold on behalf of his disastrous family all he liked, about his grandfather’s legacy or his mother’s despair, but there was no thorn in his side more pressing than Alastor Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Mundungus and the Ministry’s Finest had never exactly seen eye to eye. “Oh, we’re looking at investing in a timeshare together,” he replied with a wry glance in her direction, “See, Moods and Shacklebolt seem to think I’m deserving of an early retirement. They have an eye on this little fortress on an island out in the North Sea. Very remote. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

Wry smile twisting sourly for a moment he took a long sip of his tea like it might wash the taste out. Dumbledore hadn’t been good for much but he had considered Mundungus useful. Mundungus had yet to figure out if the new heads of the Order with their shiny Auror badges were more likely to shank him in a back alley or ship him off to the aforementioned retirement home for criminals. Exactly how much Dumbledore had told them about the reason he had Mundungus under his thumb was also up in the air. 

His forehead furrowed as the current problème du jour crawled back into the forefront of his thoughts. “I could be,” he replied distractedly as he drained the last of his tea, “It’s awful rude to go about assuming a man’s age, Bones.”

[mundxngus]

commanderlestrange‌:

The fact that Mundungus had repeated the words ‘tooth bucket’ were of no comfort to Bellatrix. Not much phased the woman these days, but the idea that the bartender might steal her teeth was hardly something that encouraged her to enjoy her drink - as much as one could enjoy whiskey that was surely watered down. Admittedly, she hadn’t come here due to the reputation of the place’s alcohol - if she wanted a good drink, there were plenty of other places to get it. Hell, her collection back at the manor was probably far more pleasing than anything that Billy could offer. Dung’s words piqued her interest and she quirked an eyebrow in his direction. “All the fighting, hm?” 

Twisting slightly on the bar- stool, Bellatrix reached for her purse which contained her wand. Flicking it at herself, the tight lace dress that she wore transformed into a loose fitting shirt and trousers. At the very least, it might help her to blend in more amongst the bored faces at the bar. She’d felt very out of place, a beacon of wealth in a bar full of those that might want to rob her. “I haven’t been called a lady of discerning tastes since my wedding, and even then, half of it was planned by my dear mother. God-forbid anything went slightly against her vision for her eldest daughter’s marriage.”

Bellatrix waved Billy down, ordering herself another whiskey before she rose from the barstool. “Might I ask you to accompany me down? I suspect that a bet might just line your pocket, but I might be able to offer you ten galleons once I’ve had a look at the fighters.”

“Guess that depends on what your tastes are,” he replied with a broad flash of teeth, easing off his barstool with drink in hand and cracking his neck with an audible pop of his spine. “Me, I always fancied a Spring wedding. Lots’ve flowers and nice china for the guest’s to nick for souveneirs, a big cake that Uncle Mackey could inevitably destroy when he got into a brawl with one of the other guests.” His eyes darted back to Bellatrix, faintly bemused by the abrupt wardrobe change (stranger things, and all) before inclining his head in what might have been a gentlemanly bow on anyone else.

“Then of course I’d abscond with one of the bridesmaids to Barcelona to hawk the wedding rings for a small fortune and live a brief, happy existence on the run from local authorities before letting her take the fall and crossing the border to Morocco.” He hummed, nose wrinkling faintly before waving a hand at her to follow, “They have a King you know.”

And Mundungus tended to view the Alley itself like his own little kingdom, it was just that nobody else seemed to recognise his sovereignty yet. He began to weave through the crowd towards a door marked Staff Only, snagging the purse strings of a coin-bag out of some pigeon’s pocket who wasn’t paying it enough attention on his way past and weighing the coin bag thoughtfully in his hand before tucking it into the inner pocket of his jacket, all the while chatting merrily over his shoulder. “We have a good line-up tonight, well, as much a sorry lot as usual but your kind all have glass-jaws, can’t be helped. Muggle-rules, as per usual, no wands, no magic, no weapons that can’t be discretely hidden upon one’s person until they are needed. Winner takes the bragging rights and loser can tell their father about this all they like as long as we all get paid.”

Prying open the door (with a heavy application of his shoulder when it got stuck partway) he held it open, waving her magnanimously ahead of him down the long a dark stairway leading down into the basement below. “Ladies first.”

[mundxngus]

alexanott‌:

Based off his interactions with the bartender, this was exactly the kind of person Alex had hoped to meet, a laugh escaping him at the other man’s antics. Sure, the clientele on a Sunday was undoubtedly compromised of people equal parts shady and sad, but the gentleman next to him seemed game for providing Alex with entertainment. He raised an eyebrow at the other man’s drink of choice – suddenly feeling a little insecure about his own drink choice. Then again, it was a Sunday, and he had a radio show to host bright and early the next morning – getting hammered in a grimy pub in Knockturn Alley and then turning up to work hungover would not go down well with his bosses.

Reaching out to shake the man’s hand, Alex gave him an amused smile. “Alexander Nott,” he replied, glancing around at the sudden crash. The remnants of a bar stool were scattered on the floor around a confused-looking wizard, splinters in the tangled mess of his hair. “It’s great,” he replied earnestly, glancing around at the dank interior. “I’d come here more often if I didn’t feel like I was about to catch a disease or a curse every time I touch a bit of furniture. But you don’t get clients of this quality at Fortescue’s, that’s for sure.”

Alex took a long sip of his drink, lingering for a moment with the cool bottle pressed to his lips. He was here for amusement, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do a little investigation at the same time.

“This whole alley is crazy, though.” He leant in towards Mundungus, his tone hushed, almost scandalised at the thought of dark magic – whoever said Alex couldn’t act? “I was looking for magical defenders, given the times, and some of the objects at Borgin and Burkes… “ He was keen to find out the other man’s opinion on these objects – begin establishing his affiliation, if nothing else. “I didn’t know what half of them were, and I definitely wasn’t going to ask.”

He surveyed the other man, sitting back up straight. “I’d have bought something if I knew what to buy. None of it seemed particularly helpful at keeping people out without murdering them like – a lot. Dark stuff, that’s for sure.”

Nott. 

“Like that cheery cunt on the radio?” That explained it then; the moneyed types always looked a little like deer in the headlights, unsure of how they’d gotten there. This one was the enthusiastic kind, craning his neck around to take in the sights like he’d never seen the makings of a bar-brawl before. Mundungus took another sip of his whiskey, weighed his options, and concluded that he had all the time in the world to indulge his whims today. “Y’know the Great Plague of London in 1665 is said to have originated from that very barstool. Legend has it they haven’t cleaned it since. Y’know. For luck.”

And really, the idea of genteel Florean stomaching any of this lot in his squeaky clean little family-friendly establishment was enough to bring another wide grin to his lips. 

Another long sip of his whiskey followed, head inclining towards his Chatty Cathy of a neighbour to listen to his scandalised account of the Alley and the contents of Borgin and Burke’s shelves. He could practically hear the line being cast, but Mundungus had never been shy of biting. “The old codger has an eye for cursed objects, to be sure,” he agreed with a wiggle of his hand in dismissal, “But he’ll fleece you for everything you’re worth if you aren’t careful,” as was the sacred right of any purveyor of illicit goods, “In the case of good quality protective charms with a little more teeth, I’ve always found it’s best to cut out the middle man entirely. Go straight to the source.”

He lowered his voice, leaning into the bit with a raise of his eyebrows as he added, “I met a Curse Breaker down in Kent who entrusted into my possession a door-knocker that’ll make a person bleed out from their eyeballs if they should try to enter a home uninvited.” 

Entrusted was perhaps a reimagining of that particular chain of events, but he hadn’t suffered a single burst blood vessel for his trouble and Curse Breakers always had the best things.

[mundxngus]

unspeakableprewett‌:

Fabian could only raise an eyebrow, unwilling to give Dung the satisfaction of a smile. He certainly didn’t believe for an instant all this was intended as a teaching exercise. “Considering our leader has also left no discernable trace of existence, we may have more in common with churches than you think.” 

That thought, though said idly, did furrow his brow. What they would do if Dumbledore did not return was a constant weight on his mind, even if, meeting Mundungus’ self-satisfied twisted grin, he was not inspired with the desire to give further confidences. Not more than he’d already given away in the rush of apology, at least. He knew the people to whom he felt comfortable admitting a weakness, and while there were some Order members who made the list, the man in front of him now was not one of them. 

“If that’s the best promise I can extract from you, I suppose I’ll take it. For now.” He followed him to the kitchen, unable to help being caught up by what he supposed had to be called Mundungus’ charisma. He wasn’t about to lose money to him, but this was what Fabian imagined set others at ease to do so. Even he, aware of it, and vaguely irritated at being treated as someone else’s guest in his own home, was somehow complelled to go along with it. 

That was the thing, it still was Fabian’s house. It would be possible to ban Mundungus, he supposed, if it truly became necessary, but he didn’t like the thought of taking a safe place away from anyone. The only solution that remained was learning to live with him. In a way, that seemed like more of a hassle. 

He took a seat at the kitchen table, already struggling to follow along with the story at hand. It was better not to ask Mundungus too many questions, particularly about the varied aquaintances of dubious natures he seemed to have. An inexhaustable source. All members of the Order had learnt that rather quickly. “Can’t say I ever felt the urge,” he admitted dryly in response. “Seems a bit risky for you, Dung. Don’t you prefer to control the odds?” 

“You mean if a Dumbledore falls in the forest with nobody to hear, did he ever really exist?” He replied with a wrinkle of his nose, as if their missing leader were merely a philosophical quandary posed by a drunk at the pub and not an active problem for them all to be attempting to solve. His mother’s church had survived for thousands of years on faith alone, he doubted the Order had the same kind of stamina. 

Mundungus knew better than to care about what Albus Dumbledore decided to do with his life, so long as it wasn’t pulling his strings he had more important things to worry about. Like where, exactly, the chips were going to fall when the Order settled into its new leadership and their bloodhound new leaders came sniffing for ways to kick the problem child back into the alley where he belonged. This Prewett had always struck him as the steady type, reasonable. More inclined to understanding that Mundungus Fletcher was not the kind of man you wanted to be tugging too hard at the leash of.

Thumping a pair of glasses onto the kitchen table, he thumbed open the whisky bottle one-handed, a healthy glug of Blishens settled into each glass before he slid one in Fabian’s general direction with the swift and practiced hands of a man who sometimes tended bars. “Stabberscotch is not a game of chance, it’s a game of skill,” he replied with a wiggle of his unblemished fingers, a fond expression on his face as he added, “Jack was also drugged to the gills and not so fond of knives on account of the stabbing, so one might say I had a tactical advantage.”

Settling heavily into a kitchen chair he dragged his own whisky glass to his side, eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he asked, “Where’s the other half? I’m not entirely convinced there are two of you, you know. There was a lad in the Wyvern the other night telling me he met a girl who claimed to have a twin, but he was convinced it was just the same girl just pretending to be two people. I told him it was probably on account of her not wanting to talk to him because he was a right little twat, but it made me wonder. Are you the evil twin or the good one? Do you both actually exist? These are the things I’m left to wonder.”

[mundxngus]

james-pottr‌:

“I distinctly remember giving you quite a bit of my mother’s china to sell recently,” James says with a hard swallow, despite the note of amusement in his voice. The memory of packing up anything valuable or sentimental from his parents’ house still hangs heavy over his shoulders, barely two weeks after they had finished. “Doesn’t this count as some form of payment?” 

Despite the minuscule nature of the sip he had taken, the contents of the flask burns pleasantly as it travels down James’ throat. It was not enough to truly impact his concentration or judgement, no matter how potent Mundungus might have made it, but he appreciates the almost placebo effect of calm that spreads over his body as a result. Most would not trust anything that had emerged from Mundungus’ pocket, but James was quickly beginning to realise that his skills of self-preservation were not particularly strong. “You’ve only got one after all,” he remarks back. The initial joke was not his best, but it was better than nothing, given his less than jovial mood.

James’ shoulders shrug with the air of a man who has very little cares, despite the fact he was a man (and barely that) who had many a care and concern at that moment. Nothing that was currently weighing on his mind was appropriate to share with Dung, who James knew dealt heavily in secrets and whispers. 

“Just admiring this display,” he says finally, waving one hand at the black-clad figures who surround them. “Hoping I get something a little more upbeat and personalised when it’s my turn.” His parents funeral had been filled with those who had known them, telling stories that James had heard dozens of times over, and others that he had never been told. Would there be people left to speak of him when it was his turn? Or would this war destroy them all?

“You’ve a remarkable memory on you there, Jimmy,” Mundungus replied with an amused glance down at the contents of his cup of tea. “The demand for fine china around my parts, as you could imagine, was off the charts. Could hardly fend the buggars off once they caught a peep of what I had to sell. That Willow Blue line? They were lining up down the street.”

And truth be told he’d suckered some sweet old duck at the Fountain of Fair Fortune into taking the whole lot for a tidy penny, but he could practically feel the weight of James Potter’s Dead Parents looming over them like a stormcloud. Best not to get caught in that particular weather. “If you’re lucky. Though I’ve met my fair share of invertebrates and they seem to do all right for themselves.”

Mundungus himself frequently found himself with a distinct lack of spine, something he’d always considered an asset. Heroes and their ilk had an unfortunate habit of winding up in an early grave. Case in point the collection of candle-lit photos at the front of the chapel.

“See, you’re going about this all wrong there lad,” he replied with a sniff, tilting his head and eyeing the crowd with a discerning eye, “When my time comes, which I don’t intend to be for quite some time might I add, I want the full shebang. Funeral dirges and three hour sermons about hellfire and the state of my mortal soul. Someone’s hair catching alight on the votives because they used too much hairspray that morning. They can bury me with all my gold too so that when Dystyl eventually comes for my bones his poor assistant will get a nice payday out of it.”

He hummed, inspecting his nails as if a casual mention of graverobbing belonged at a funeral service and glanced sidelong at James. Mundungus and his anecdotes had always been something of an acquired taste. “I could give a eulogy if you like.”