fool's gold

for i am a strange new kind of in between, aren't i? not at home with the dead nor with the living. Aether Pyrites. Sommelier.

[pyritcs]

tmriddlerp​:

customer service

WHO: @arpyrites & @pyritcs [CLOSED]

WHERE: Borgin & Burkes

When Tom Riddle had graduated Hogwarts in a blaze of accolades and promise, he could have taken his pick of Ministry internships or entry-level codebreaking positions. His friends had encouraged him to do just that. But Tom, still thrumming with the aftermath of the Myrtle affair and the first and final Riddle family reunion and the casting off of mortality, wasn't interested in desk jobs or climbing ladders. He wanted the world. He wanted to remake its every glaring flaw, and as someone uniquely positioned between the magical and the muggle, he could see them both clearly.

As it turned out, simply possessing political opinions and a talent for magic did not put a roof over one's head. Dippett denied his application to stay on at Hogwarts, and he was too proud to ask his friends for something so mundane as money. So he got a job.

Borgin and Burkes was very nearly wonderful at first. The shop housed the kind of magic which could get you expelled at Hogwarts, and after years of coasting through basic transfiguration and charms, whole new avenues of spellwork unfolded themselves to him. For the first time in his life, he was answerable only to himself; his employers left him more or less to his own devices so long as he made them money and showed up at opening.

The problem was with the customers.

"How much for this one?" The question came from a rather frog-like warlock who fancied himself a connoisseur of dark artefacts. From behind the shop's counter, Tom's fingers flexed involuntarily as the man ran his greasy fingers across the surface of a 16th-century amulet.

"Fifty-five galleons."

The man made a phlegmy noise of disgust. "Highway robbery. What kind of an idiot do you take me for?"

This should have been Tom's cue to turn on the charm: to smile his perfect smile, to point out the amulet's intricate enchantment and goblin-made chain, to flatter. To sprinkle a bit of Legilimency on top if it were needed. He was good at this job. Today, however, he was not in a smiling mood, and it took a strength of practice cultivated over a lifetime of controlling his impulses to keep from cursing the man's entire bloodline.

He was on the verge of answering the man's question with uncharacteristic honesty when the bell on the door tinkled, heralding a new arrival. He pasted his patented Head Boy smile back on. "Good afternoon," he greeted.

- Aether was not a morning person — nor were they a noon person, or an afternoon person, or really much of a person at all these days while the sun was still in the sky — but business hours and Aether hours rarely coincided of late and thus, they were forced to make do. Knockturn Alley was the sort of place that was infinitely improved by nighttime, when all the grime and grit was absorbed into shadow and the constant murmur of danger had a chance to creep up on you — it was a shame, really, to visit by day.

In a sly twist of fate, Knockturn Alley was all but undisturbed by the rampaging paths of the acolytes, the intricate ecosystem of pickpockets and shadowy figures thriving as tentative business was forced to migrate from the heart of Diagon down the road into Knockturn’s snaggle-toothed maw. Even Argo’s presence had never succeeded in making the alley an unappealing location to be, though he’d certainly tried. If they heard one more tangent about apologising to Beryl they were going to Austria just to spite him.

With a cheerful chiming of bells over head and little care for where they’d lost Argo along the way, they pushed through the doors of 13B, inhaling the rich scent of dust and moths and magic and silver polish and grease — of a thick, musky scent tinged with the sour burst of sweat. Their nose wrinkled. Borgin and Burkes was a marvellous place, stocked high with curiosities and curses and mysteries, but while Aether always had time to admire the beguiling collections of medieval weaponry and deeply cursed artefacts, today they had slept late, again, and daylight errands waited for no one.

A polite Good Afternoon was met with an immediate sense of skepticism as Aether’s eyes darted from a particularly impressive (and weighty, no doubt) mace to fix upon Tom Riddle. For a moment they simply stared, with the same unblinking interest of a cat fixated upon potential prey, before their smile broke open, a hint of teeth catching at their lower lip as they reached up to tip their hat back with aplomb. “Riddle.”

There was another customer already in the store, pressed up against the counter and blinking dark amphibian eyes dully between them, as if he couldn’t decide what to be more offended by. “I didn’t know you worked here. What a coincidence.”

It was as much a coincidence as it had been any of the other times Aether had appeared in the past month, forever chasing another absurd errand disguised as a quest dictated by the Ferrymen. Another merry chime of bells heralded their brother’s breathing as he burst into the store behind them. Aether’s hands had somehow, curiously, inched their way to the mace’s handle without them noticing. “Argo — look, it’s Tom.”

@arpyrites

[pyritcs]

dearmiranda​:

WHERE: main thoroughfare, diagon alley. WHEN: a few days post-acolyte attack, 1945. STATUS: open to all.

Something crunches under Miranda’s boot as she walks, almost certainly glass from one of the boarded up shop fronts nearby. It’s the first time she’s visited Diagon Alley since news of the attack hit, and where she’d expected efforts to repair the damage caused to be almost complete, she instead finds lingering devastation. The little apothecary shop where she’s been working part-time had been caught up in the madness, but Miranda hadn’t realised things were quite this bad. 

The words scrawled garishly across a nearby building loom at her as she passes. For the greater good. In the face of all of this, the list of baubles her sisters had asked her to pick up suddenly seems pointless, silly. People are here struggling to pick up the pieces, and she’s here to run errands? But what else can I do? Miranda thinks hopelessly. Pushing the gnawing feeling of guilt aside, she turns to carry on with her task, quite unaware of the body that had been behind her as she stumbles into them. “Ah, shi—”

They’d been right, of course. Days after the attack and the thick smell of blood still smothered the alley, worked deep into the crevices and cracks of the cobblestones and filling their head with a giddy sort of elation that made it ever so difficult to just think. It was a lovely distraction, savoury and drip-feeding the soil beneath the alley, and kept their thoughts wistfully adrift from the task at hand — silverware? Candlesticks? Something to be picked up from the vault at Gringotts on behalf of Ambrose and while Aether balked at the idea of playing fetch (again), the key in their pocket was a significant improvement on Ambrose insisting they leave the room whenever business was discussed. Perhaps this was progr—

— Aether staggered at the impact, blinking bemusedly in the direction of the woman who’d collided with them so suddenly and knocked their train of thought aside, right along with their voluminous hat that tipped slowly backwards off their head to flop sadly to the cobblestones beneath them, a descent that was mimicked immediately by the matching downward tilt of their lips. There were few things Aether liked better than a statement piece.

"What have you done?” was perhaps more dramatic than the scene called for, but as they swooped upon their fallen hat and began reverently brushing any hint of dirt or debris from it’s woven surface, it became clear they were entirely serious. “This was an investment.”

The better part of two paychecks and a jaunty angle — Babushka had always said they had the right bone structure for hats. Was it misshapen? From an angle it looked as if—

Their head whipped around the sparsely populated alley, another heady whiff of bloodshed crawling up their nostrils as they loudly continued aloud, “Hello? Is anyone a milliner?”

[pyritcs]

arpyrites​:

“How?” Depositing Beryl in his lap, he copied Aether (a habit born from a lonesome childhood) and stretched. His back providing none of the same satisfying cracks their sibling had. “You need something.” Couldn’t they sense that? “Your usually embellishments haven’t gotten their attention so far.” Argo shifted ever so sluggishly to place his legs in the best possible position for Beryl’s comfort. She was quite the pet, hanging on and around the peculiar home and lifestyle they both led far longer than he thought she had the taste for. 

“She’d be just the thing. If you went in carrying her, no one would overlook the…” Trailing off, he dipped rested his hands behind him and stretched until he was nearly perpendicular to the floor. His nose scrunching not at the lingering smell of salamander but at the effort and the picture of an upside down Aether. “Half-breed sommelier? Little wix? Whatever they call you. Beryl would fix it. It’s what she’s good at.”

Argo sunk down to the floor, his arms giving out from the little effort he expended and his cat taking the open invitation to lounge across his chest. All routes of escape were blocked now. He’d be nothing more than a feline floor cushion, a cat chesterfield until the end of his days. “A boat trip with a zombie imposter doesn’t bode well. He’d drown you at sea. Within a day.” 

He wouldn’t even be able to freshen up now, not with the time lost conversing with a sibling he saw far too infrequently for someone he lived with. Cat hair covered errand boy, was that his lot in life? Or should he take up Aether’s suggestion and proposition Mr. Worme? Surely not. There weren’t enough perks to keep him interested for longer than a shopping trip. But if Aether thought it was a good idea…well, it had at least a fifty percent chance of working out alright. “He’s not my friend. He’s a civil servant.” It was an explanation in itself. The ministry frowned upon progress and betterment. “Would they do that? Lock it all up so I can’t get in?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the scrawled upon parchment slip with some difficulty not disturbing the lady of the house. “I have a note.” It’s not as though the Alley would take a long time to clean up. They’ll pretend it’s a burden, ask the public for gold and donations to pay for renovations or help out fictitious families.

“I thought for a moment I had done it.” But the sun was still up. Coverage was required to help Argo forget himself. “Couldn’t have been me.” A hand scrubbed at his face roughly, nearly sneezing at the cat dander he had wholey succeeded in rubbing into his sinuses. It barely covered the memory of the iron scented air. “Couldn’t have been you?”

Unsolicited advice was just one of the many services their brother blundered through on any given day, but even prolonged exposure to his tendencies had yet to lessen the irritation of them. Visions of showing him something of their usual embellishments fizzed happily through the back of their thoughts — Aether could only imagine how long this would go on for if he was allowed to carry on, unchecked.  “The average cat’s blood volume would barely fill a Bordeaux glass,” they replied, dragging their feet back off the coffee table and rolling forward into a crouch upon the edge of the sofa, the faint glint of the razor edge of their teeth just peeking out from beneath the curl of their lip. “And that’s to say nothing of the taste. Beryl’s not worth the space on the menu.”

Their eyes fixed for a long moment, dark and unblinking, upon the cat sprawled across their brother’s chest in a clear show of dominance before rolling their eyes as they rose back to their feet, satisfied Argo wouldn’t be following them around again this time. They had never had much cause for interest in their twins exploits, alchemy was all equations and potions and staring into space as far as they’d been able to determine, and they weren’t about to feign as much now. 

They stared for a moment instead as he rambled about civil servants and lock-downs before decisively turning to leave, nose wrinkling as they added over their shoulder, “There’s no such thing as zombies.”

Perhaps that’s precisely what they needed. A boat ride and continental air.

Argo’s droning followed them out of the living room and down the hall, into the shoebox of a room that was solely theirs and was silenced, finally, by the wall-rattling slam of their door. Let him marinate in his own inane questions for a while — they had a Black Mass to prepare for and the Ferryman’s waited for nobody.

[pyritcs]

WHO: @lydiancarrow [CLOSED] WHERE: DIAGON ALLEY WHEN: two days following THE ACOLYTE ATTACK, November 1945.

The curious thing about Londoners in this strange post-war era was their preternatural resilience.

From amidst the bloodstains and the rubble, marketsellers had popped back up like weeds through the cobblestones of Diagon Alley in a matter of days, their stalls in varying states of repair but already determinedly back to haggling with those passersby. It was before one such stall laden with potions ingredients that Aether stood, bleary-eyed and blinking away the night’s lack of sleep. 

Argo had asked for what, exactly? Dogweed? They poked dully at a limp sprig of dittany that looked suspiciously singed and opened their mouth to query how fresh it really was when a withered hand shot out to swat their fingers away. For a sleep-delayed moment they stared down at their stinging hand, following the withered fingers as they collected the dittany for themself and drew it back to a basket of similarly pilfered items.

They were halfway through opening their mouth to complain, “I was actually—” when they froze, eyes glued to the distinctive floral pattern of the scarf wrapped around the elderly women’s head.  If there was one thing that Aether had learned from a childhood spent under the stern and watchful eye of their own terrifying Babushka, it was not to get in the way of a grandmother at market. Babushki were not the kindly, smiling creatures they wanted the world to believe.

If Aether were less proud (or less foolish), they might have disapparated immediately, forsaking Argo’s half-remembered shopping list, in the hopes the Babushka hadn’t already caught their scent. 

But alas, they were not and did not — and now they’d gone and made eye contact and before they could stop themself, Aether had committed the cardinal sin against babushki-kind — they decided to argue. “Excuse me — I saw that first.”

[pyritcs]

arpyrites​:

Hallucinations. “You can’t prove that.” There was no guide detailed enough to prove any of what Aether said. It was why he chose to ignore them until something just troubling enough to reach the surface was said. Argo sighed, words on how temperature changes or some stray animal, even the winds of construction that seemed constant around their tiny home, could ruin a good soup. “A Northumbrian burr would suit you. If you tried to adapt it, I should think it could come naturally. You’d just have to work on your jaw tension.”

Placing a lid back over the ancient cauldron that had survived a lifetime and more’s worth of projects, his gaze traveled. Bounced to and fro and all around with a squint. “Grindelwald got the Encre Pigmentee after all. Good spot, Aether.” The hairy curling mass, making a home of itself at his siblings feet, helped Argo right his gaze. He shuffled over to the pair, bending down until he was kneeling, and collected Beryl into his arms. Pressing a kiss onto her head before lifting the pet cat up in his twin’s direction. “Not a whiff of salamander. You just need Beryl alongside you. She’s been dying for a day out. Your absence has been noted and you know how long she can hold a grudge.”

His head tilted in mild confusion, the floor shifting but not quite moving. It gave him pause. What on earth could lead to these tremors when all three terrors of the East End were safely tucked away in their sanctuary? “Ivan on a summer voyage.” A soft snort of disbelief left him. “Likely.”

“I’ve done nothing.” Except expose the Ivan his twin knew as an impersonator. “He’s not an instructor, you know. It’s a hobby to him.” Hobby bitten out like a dirty word. “And, really, I’m far better at watching than book making. Or book keeping. I don’t fancy trying out book burning but Mr. Worme must get drafty in that shop alone. Especially if he did lose all his windows today.” He shuffled forward, knee knocking into his Grindelwald-thought-stolen-purchases and frowned. Exotic Symbol Analyst, Level One, British Ministry of Magic, Whitehall. “You want me to be late.”

“I certainly can,” they replied with the exact same fervour that was always summoned whenever Aether was told they couldn’t do something. Their entire being seemed to puff up with indignation like a cat’s fur standing on end in an attempt to convince its adversary it was far larger than it actually was — and speaking of feline foes.

Their eyes darted to the purring creature rumbling at their feet, locking eyes with the lamp-like stare that was entirely nonplussed by the infuriating resurgeance of Northumberland into the conversation once again. “I don’t need a Northumbrian burr,” they told Beryl evenly, head tilting as the cat blinked back at them, tail swishing silently before it too succumbed to an unwilling Argo-based imprisonment. Beryl may not have carried the unfortunately lingering scent of salamander, but she did have a distinctive terroir of dust, dander and the corpses of the hundreds of house spiders that had died between her jaws. 

“I am not taking a cat to the Ferryman’s,” they replied firmly, reaching out to scritch absently at the back of Beryl’s ferocious mane before turning on their heel to stalk towards the living room as the window panes rattled furiously in their frames. With a yawn they dropped heavily into the sofa, hitching the back of one heel onto the coffee table and sprawling bonelessly outward, a stance not unlike that of the cat currently trapped in Argo’s arms. “Or on a boat trip, in case that was your next suggestion. Beryl will have to stay here with you while I’m in Austria.”

And while their brother continued to rabbit on about .. something to do with Mr. Worme, no doubt, because he really should just go and marry the man if he was going to keep going on about him like that, Aether hummed, cracking out the bones of their spine with a satisfying pop until Argo’s accusation rose out of the dull background murmuring they’d been tuning out. Lazily toeing off their boots with a heavy thump to the carpeted floor, they scoffed, “You’re the one making yourself late. But you know the Ministry’s probably locked down on account of all the fuss at Diagon. Your little symbologist friend is probably crying under his desk.”

[pyritcs]

arpyrites​:

“Who says I wasn’t? My past life, well, one of my past lives. You should know. You would have been there.” His actions were quick now that they were home and his head was beginning to clear. A flick of his wrist increased the flame as he glanced to the clock above the doorway. Not enough time. “Deira and Bernicia joining in union to make Northumbria. Whoever was in charge of that naming should be stoned to death.” 

With a heavy reluctance he released their wrist, needing two hands to grab for the jar, resting precariously on top of a stack of clean dishes, of fairy wings that used to house arnica before this idea had taken hold. It consumed utterly as all ideas did. “Ivan succumbed to that storm months ago. There isn’t a boat to sail upon.” 

Despite their discussion, Argo’s airy notes meeting his sibling’s contemptuousness, he looked upon Aether as if he was just seeing them. “Why do you assume I’ve done something?” The question was offered up honestly, free of self-consciousness but full of concern over the disfavour that may follow. “I didn’t realize there was a palate to ruin. Don’t you wan– Yes! Exactly!” The cloud of trepidation passed as he moved on to bigger and better. “Luck hasn’t favored me.” He’d never get his hands on a drop of Re'em blood.  “Dragons’ are far too expensive to get a hold of but the salamander!” It may work. Transmutation could hold the answer, couldn’t it? “Unlikely.”

Spoon in hand, Argo counted his counter-clockwise stirs aloud. He had just hit seven when he stopped his mumbling and tilted his head back with a sigh. “Do you think I’d make a good partner to a publisher? Is that why you don’t want to spend time with me?”

“Fume induced hallucinations are not your past lives,” they replied with a dismissive cluck of their tongue rather than risk acknowledging whatever Northumbrian nonsense might come next. Expressing how little they cared about such things didn’t appear to be having the desired effect. “Try cracking a window when you’re brewing next time.” 

Still, some gambits remained easily predictable and they turned on their heel decisively to begin discarding their accoutrements onto the coat stand. They rolled their eyes as their lofty hat was settled atop the highest perch at a jaunty angle, calling back over their shoulder, “Don’t be ridiculous — I saw Ivan at mass on Saturday. He’s planning a summer trip down the Côte d'Azur and asked if I’d be interested.”

Scarf draped cheerily around the shoulders of the mannequin they moved on to settling their coat into place, tipping their head thoughtfully and yawning to themself as the familiar rumblings of construction and industry from the neighbourhood outside shook the floorboards. “You’ve always done something Argo — the least you could do is make sure the place is well ventilated so you don’t ruin my senses for good. I’m supposed to be picking up some nice vintages later this afternoon and now all I’ll be able to smell is salamander.”

Shuffling the few steps back to the verge of the kitchen they lounged against the doorframe, eyebrows inching upward as they replied, “If you’re trying to make me feel sorry for you it’s very unbecoming. You and Mr. Worme would do well together.”

[pyritcs]

arpyrites​:

“It used to be the Kingdom of Northumbria, did you know? Norþan-hymbre. Imagine having to say you were from Humber.” Argo sighed, considering the weight of being a wixen of Berwick-upon-Tweed. He wasn’t sure he had the stomach for such pondering. Raising on his toes, he leaned to his side without a care for Aether, narrowly missed their incoming claws. “I certainly hope not. He’s a legend. I hardly think there’s a wizard alive with as much knowledge of the printing press. He prefers the old ways. You should come see him bind a book one day. The whole process, it’s a delight the amount of effort that goes into just one copy.” 

The day would not end in terror from Grindelwald or Bavarian Erklings or the Erlking but from Aether themself. Argo dared to look back again, lip worrying between his teeth. They didn’t mean that. They didn’t because they couldn’t. A day trip to Austria to visit a recently imprisoned (terrorist or freedom fighter or whatever it was you considered the) megalomaniac was a ridiculous concept that required planning and forethought and not something you could just do on a whim. But if anyone could… He lurched forward, clasping a hand around their wrist. “Now? If you insist. I hope you reserved the portkey or the rush paperwork will be a nightmare.” He held their gaze, the smallest lift of his eyebrows before they vanished with a pop and landed in the middle of a mess of a different sort, his latest project gracing every possible surface of the kitchen. Steam rose steadily from a cauldron set upon the stove. With a sniff he wandered forward to investigate the brew, his grip still tight upon them. “Exotic Symbol Analyst, Level One, British Ministry of Magic, Whitehall. Do I need to start forwarding you my schedule?” The brew was stirred, sniffed. A taste was considered by ultimately decided against. “Would you like to have a Northumbrian burr?”

“If I want a History lesson I’ll ask someone who was actually there,” Aether replied breezily, well aware that once Argo was stuck on one of his loops of cyclical thinking he’d be consumed by it all day. It was best to ignore them and hope that none of his trivia lodged itself permanently into their brain to take up valuable space. “What on earth have I done to you recently that you’d suggest I should suffer through all that? Maybe you should marry him if you like his bookbinding so much.”

The very thought of it scrunched up their face in disdain, an expression that continued as their brother latched onto their wrist like he thought they might just make a break for it to Austria right then and there. It was absurd. He was absurd. A trip to Austria would at least require a wardrobe change or seven.  Predictably, the sharp tug of side-along apparation was quick to follow.

Aether took it in stride.

“Don’t be ridiculous — I’ll borrow Ivan’s boat to cross the channel and pick up a portkey from Albert in Calais. Criminal masterminds don’t fill out customs paperwork,” they sniffed, once for emphasis and then again at the cacophany of scent that flooded their palate from the bubbling cauldron upon the stove. “Oh, that’s ghastly — what have you done this time?” Shouldering their way through the doorway into the kitchen they stared at the cauldron with deep mistrust, eyes narrowing as they continued, “That’ll be in the curtains now and we’ll be smelling it til Christmas. I’ll give you a Northumbrian burr — are you trying to ruin my palate? Everything’s going to taste like," their nose scrunched in consideration before settling upon, “Boiled salamander skin?”

[pyritcs]

arpyrites​:

“Bavarian Erklings.” He corrected a second later, stomping over their words in his explanation as he continued to study the storefront. “Or the myth himself. Either or, really.” Much as many things did with Argo, his comprehension was delayed. A blazing train of thought, two or more ideas finally clicking in the errant fog that took up the majority of space in his brain, pulled into the station and the picture came to form crystal clear. 

There was no fun in giving Aether the satisfaction of being right so early in their days. “Anyone could be about. Dangerous sort, isn’t that what you said? And you stand here confessing, begging to be put away for your artistic prowess. Your bohemian vision shouldn’t be policed.” The wind shifted, smoke billowing down the street towards the pair and bringing a delight to Argo’s very being with it. He could hardly muster up the energy to sound put out about– “I was picking up an order. There was no haggling to be done. He has been awful charitable since his wife moved on. Bristol? It wasn’t. Berwick-upon-Tweed.” Or the levelling surrounding them as he glanced down the Alley with the twinkle of wonderment in his eye. “With her lover.” He should embrace it now. Before the regret over his lack of initial empathy set in. “Terrible tragedy but he doesn’t seem a bit saddened. Did you see? Is his shop still standing?”

All good moods could be shattered and Aether was doing their very best to do so to his. His hand moved to cover the target their twin coveted, sliding over to make space at the subpar book shop. “What could Grindelwald want with Encre Pigmentee? Sometimes you hardly make sense, Aether.” He considered for a moment, fingers tracing the jagged pointy bits of leftover window with the utmost care, before glancing their way. “Don’t go check. Please.”

“You can tell that to the Aurors when they come questioning,” they replied, refusing to be drawn into whatever nonsense Argo was peddling this time. Erklings and Erlkings and bohemian visions be damned. Gossip about sad old tweedy men and their unfaithful wives was perhaps the least interesting thing he’d said today. Quite an accomplishment.

“I certainly hope not,” they replied grimly, stretching valiantly to try and catch Argo’s other ear with a sharp flick of their fingers, “Sounds like it would be a mercy to off the man now. Imagine being so miserable that your wife would rather live in Berwick-upon-Tweed than be near you?”

And while their brother’s disposition appeared to be veering towards something frightfully scowly, Aether perked up in equal measure at his annoyance. “I don’t know — I think a trip to Nurmengard sounds rather lovely, actually.  I hear that Austria’s quite stunning this time of year.”

They beamed, taking one step then two steps back from the shattered window, hands crossed behind their back and the spirit of mischief stealing across their face as they offered, “Shall we go now? I’m sure there’ll be rather a few visitors and I’d like to get in early.”

[pyritcs]

arpyrites​:

He followed Aether’s steps, lurking behind their shoulder and observing the ritual of inspection with more focus than he had lent much of anything outside the Centre today. “The Erlking would never venture this far into the city. How ever did you manage this alone?” He brushed away the comment, stilling at Aether’s dramatic flourish of action before pulling their thumb from his sibling’s mouth to inspect the cut with a slight frown. “Evidence. You’re better than that.”

Argo’s approval of his twin’s actions, habits, even company was of no real weight. He knew anything said would be dismissed as silly little symbols and found that was perfectly fine with him. This is the way things were. The ways things had always been before the Ferryman’s. He was rather sure the Ferryman’s hadn’t changed things. Quite certain. Well, a bit.

“I venture I’ll survive another day in your orbit. I had errands. I have an appointment, if they’ll still take me. Encre Pigmentee. Can you believe it? Out of stock for months and today is the day the shipment comes in.” Time told Argo it was his turn for his own dramatic flourish, a spin on heels and a tipping down of a hat he did not wear. Compulsion won out. He brushed past them, knocking their shoulder and kicking their ankle in his tunnel-visioned path to the very shattered store front they had been inspecting. “The timing is nothing short of substantial. You should go home. Rest before work.”

There were days when it seemed like every foolish thing that entered their twin’s head made its way directly to his mouth without stopping to look for a filter along the way — apparently this was one of them. “Erlking?” they repeated after a moment of staring in mild disbelief, shaking off his inspection of their thumb with a roll of their eyes. Exasperation won the battle over annoyance and they sighed, pointedly, before scoffing, “Yes, Argo, I destroyed half of Diagon singlehandedly while you were haggling the price of books with Mr. Worme and then I stuck around to not only watch the aftermath but smear the crimescene with a whole drop of blood to mix with all the rest of it painting the alley. I’m a criminal mastermind, they’ll never stop me.”

For a clever person, their brother frequently failed to show it. 

With a hiss as he (childishly) kicked out they turned to kick back, scooting after him to reach up and flick at the back of his ear in retaliation. “Catch up, genius, it’s obviously Grindelwald’s handiwork. Maybe they should be checking that prison of his to make sure he’s locked up tight.”

[pyritcs]

arpyrites​:

“Quite.” 

Blown pupils, tongue peaking out of his mouth to taste the air. The attempt at shopping hanging uselessly at his side. Argo wasn’t certain when his errand had taken a turn but this, the sights and smells and sound and destruction– pure and utter destruction surrounding him, taking him off course and towards what he didn’t know. 

Instinct wasn’t something Argo ever succeeded on ignoring. The urge always too strong, bewitching his senses and taking hold until he was stumbling out of Obscurus Books, Mr. Worme’s gifts for his boss and the purchases from Scribbulus’ clutched tightly to his chest as he wandered through ruin and smoke– so much smoke he felt serene standing among the sunlit streets of the Alley.

When Argo found himself surrounded by destruction it was his own doing. This, this, couldn’t be him. This couldn’t be his fault. This was on a scale he hadn’t seen, hadn’t know tucked away for schooling or in the soporific countryside he had spent his youth while the war raged on outside. Elsewhere. His gaze fell on the shadowed figure by his side and– Oh. That was who had spoken. 

“It’s not the clearest statement. You should have thought on it more.” 

There was something in the distance. No, not the distance. Nearby? Screaming or crying or the lasting rattle of pain that didn’t find it held enough compassion to leave the air nor memory quickly. “I had a meeting to get to. Exotic Symbol Analyst, Level One, British Ministry of Magic, Whitehall. I was destined to be early.”

“You’re not the clearest statement,” they replied unphased, nose wrinkled as they stepped toward the shattered display window to inspect its smouldering contents, testing the mettle of their thumb against a jagged, futilely clinging shard of glass and smiling, faintly at the well of crimson that beaded upon the skin in response. “Can you at least pretend to pay attention to where you are? Half of Diagon’s in ruins and you’re still thinking about your silly little symbols.”

To say that Aether’s patience was limited on their best days was an understatement. It was only through Herculean effort on their part that Argo had survived puberty at all. Destined to be early. He sounded like one of the fortune-telling hacks that lined the corners of Knockturn when the Ministry’s watchdogs weren’t looking.

Sucking away the droplet of blood from the tip of their thumb they turned upon their heel, dipping the wide brim of their hat back down over their eyes as they surveyed the lay of the land. Yet more graffitied messages littered the length of the alley, amidst the smoke and the wreckage. Grindelwald’s branding, apparently, would survive beyond the man himself’s jail cell. Still, Aether had business to attend to — vintages to collect for the next Black Mass. 

“What are you doing here, Argo? In case you still haven’t noticed, there’s dangerous people about today. You should go home and read a book.”

[pyritcs]

WHO: [ OPEN ] WHERE: DIAGON ALLEY WHEN: THE ACOLYTE ATTACK, November 1945.

They’d smelt it first. 

Like any natural predator, smell was a primary sense — acrid notes of smoke and clouded dust, the electric hum of magic in the air that tickled at the back of the nostrils like an impending sneeze and overlying it all, the thick and savoury iron-rich notes of blood that hit the back of their palette like a secondary explosion, warm and acidic yet already beginning to spoil, seeping into cobblestones and the thirsty earth beneath them. London was a bloodthirsty city at the best of times. Aether worried at the razor edge of their teeth with their tongue, nose wrinkling faintly at a particularly pungent waft of smoke. 

Diagon would smell like blood for weeks.

Sound was a secondary experience, the rumble of broken stone and disturbed earth, the screams and the groans and the moans. It collided in a frenetic way, jarring and irritating against heightened senses as Aether strolled aimlessly through spilled rubble and drying blood, kicking at chunks of stone as good samaritans did their bit and the injured and trapped awaited help, the dead shrouded in whatever could be spared. As was often the case, Aether skirted around the edges of the roiling tragedy of humanity, but with a tip of their hat back out of their view they paused before the shattered store-front window of Flourish & Blotts, the crunch of glittering glass beneath their feet and stopped to inspect the inscription seared into the canopy above.

For the greater good. 

“A bit much, isn’t it?” 

[kotonas]

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