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FATE IS A VERY WEIGHTY TO WORD TO THROW AROUND BEFORE BREAKFAST—

𝖖 𝖚 𝖔 𝖙 𝖊 𝖘

“Like wine, Provençal magic had its own distinctive terroir. It was rich and chaotic and romantic. It was a night-magic, confabulated out of moons and silver, wine and blood, knights and fairies, wind and rivers and forests. It concerned itself with good and evil but also with the vast intermediate realm in between, the realm of mischief.” ― Lev Grossman, The Magician King

#&. DEVELOPMENT

blanchexxprimpernelle:

nvmalfoy:

Small sunglasses slid down to reveal a judgement filled gaze, a sliver of eyes and skin not hidden by the sun hat gracing her blonde head, as Narcissa tilted her head down to get a better look at her brother-in-law and almost first husband. “You’re early?” She sniffed, raising her chin up in even more judgement as she stole the glass from his hand. “I don’t know what I expected after you fled to host your little theatre games.” Without inviting her.

The sip was horrific and Narcissa had half the mind to spat the concoction out on the patio stone but ladies didn’t spit. Instead, she swallow the horrific citrus-y drink as her lip curled and slid the glass across the table and as far away from the pair of them as she could manage. “What was that? Poison?” Not willing to spend another moment with the foul taste on her tongue she removed her glasses, tucked one ankle behind the other, and glanced in the direction of one of the cabana boys. He came running.

“I’m not sure who in their right mind decided that–” A french tipped nail pointed to the offending drink. “–was an acceptable thing to serve but I’ll need their name. Immediately. Three fresh mimosas. Bring the bottle.” Her eyes slid over to Bash. “A black coffee.” When the pool boy didn’t scurry along to fix the grave error, Narcissa’s gaze shifted slowly. The effort of acknowledging a cabana boy who couldn’t even have the decency to unbutton his shirt quite taxing. She blinked and as if that simple action had broken the spell, the boy spun and left in a frenzy of flurried embarrassment.

Leaning over, she planted a kiss on Bash’s cheek and patted his face to see if some color could return to the sour disposition she adored. “You look terrible.”

@blanchexxprimpernelle

Unfortunately for Blanche she had to spend the previous evening with her lovely husband. They had to go over wedding logistics, party planning and of course her usual job of playing the smiling sympathetic wife. Cantankerous didn’t care that she had plans the morning after, and they had spent the morning being their perfect selves. It wasn’t until Blanche was getting ready she realized just how late she was running behind. Bash and Cissa were going to murder her if she showed up half an hour late again. Blanche Primpernelle was chronically late for just about everything, not because she was bad at time management but rather she just didn’t care to. Hurriedly Blanche outfitted herself in her best country club whites before practically throwing herself through apparition.

Heels clicked along cobblestones as she made her way to their usual table, noticing Narcissa’s huge sun hat and Rabastan’s favorite accessory, a frown. “Sorry darlings. Cantankerous needed me, and it just devolved from there.” She leaned over giving a quick kiss on each of their cheeks before sliding into her own chair. Blanche cocked her head glancing around the table before lowering her sunglasses “Neither of you have a drink yet? I swear where on earth are they finding these people?” Blanche sniffed and rested her head in her hand and as if on queue a little boy arrived with a tray. She watched lazily as he shakily put down their glasses and went to walk away. “Excuse me.. - “ a quick snap of her fingers and a delicate point back at the table had the poor thing scurrying back. “Do you like having a job? I assume since you left empty glasses and a unopened bottle of champagne that you simply don’t want to work anymore. Fill the glasses.” Once her own glass was brimming with sparkling juice Blanche completely forgot about his existence and moved closer to her friends. “I think it’s time for a vacation. I don’t know how much longer I can deal with incompetence.”

@rabastanlcstrange

Sunglasses sliding down his nose as Narcissa breezed into his orbit, batting away his bad mood with the same dismissive air she employed against all of the world’s ills, Bash grimaced and peeled himself away from the grooves of the chair, head rolling forward to eye her through tired eyes and insist, “I’m never early.”

He’d been wrung out of the calming effects of potions and pills over the course of the last month, but any progress that had been expected from the experiment had certainly not been found. Still, as the buzzing of Narcissa scolding a sad excuse for a cabana boy retreated and a kiss was pressed to his cheek in its wake, his lip curled in something that might have been a smile if he were a little less on edge. “Really? Because I feel like a million galleons,” he replied wryly, scrubbing at his face and sliding his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

He could hear Blanche long before she appeared, fluttering in to settle into their table and complete the little trifecta, barking orders before she’d even hit her chair. It was a relief, to return to this — to the sound of competent women whose displeasure was inherently more scary than whatever threats his brother may have impressed upon the staff. His fingers caught around a champagne glass and he tipped half the mimosa down his throat without more than a dismissive wave of his fingers at whichever unfortunate poolboy had wandered too close to their table. “I can get you a reference for a retreat in Saint Denis,” he replied with perhaps a little too much bite as he reached for his glasses, hooking the arm into the front of his shirt and leaning back to pinch at the bridge of his nose, eyes closed as the ghost of carbonation fizzed upon his tongue happily with just the dregs of something to dull the itch beneath his skin. “You’ll come out the other side a whole new you.”

@nvmalfoy

#&. NARCISSA #&. BLANCHE #BP01 #NM01 #d. 12 June 2003

ofgreengrcss:

In fact, Daphne did not know a lot about quidditch. Over time she’d picked up which teams did well and which colors she liked and who she found attractive. However if you sat by her while watching a game she probably couldn’t tell you anything other than which player had caught her eye for the match. She didn’t know the rules of quidditch at all.”That sounds fun, always nice to get out of those uniforms to spend a night in the glitz and glam.” She made a mental note to visit France around whatever time that was.

If only they’d do something similar here. Puddlemere had by far the most attractive players but Daphne had a feeling that she’d come around enough that they were avoiding her. Knew that when they saw her big hair it was best to make yourself scarce. “The gala? Of course.”

She pulled on the sleeve of a lime green fur coat, staring at tit before starting to flip through the selection again. This time she kept her hands out of any pockets, instead raising her eyebrows both at the scarf Bash put on and the glossy feathers. “I look good in most colours. It definitely does seem to be a statement piece but I’m afriad I already have one like it at home. Maman likes making sure I have anything I need to wear on occasion. Leave it here, consider it an act of charity.”

She sighed. “Nope, truly atrocious what one wears to a night club these days. And none have the spirit of Beltane.”

There was something faintly surreal about imagining his brother in the company of this girl. Of her handling his daily affairs and the all important business that he locked himself away in his little office for, day after day, like true power ever manifested in dusty courtrooms in the Ministry’s basement. It was a thought that seemed almost too good to be true — though the reality of it was still staring him in the face. Daphne Greengrass was an asset wasted on Rodolphus’ miserable ways, but he supposed that would take care of itself eventually, and in the meantime he could only imagine the conversations that Rolf was being subjected to on a daily basis. He only hoped they’d contain significantly more quidditch than usual after tonight.

“Just a thought. But you shouldn’t say anything — you know how quickly these things get around a place like the Ministry and my brother doesn’t know I’ve been thinking about buying a team.”

Folding the coat over his arm, he felt the curious pull that sometimes occurred whenever his intended direction needed correcting. An act of charity. He supposed he could do that — the Lestranges were nothing if not charitable creatures these days, splashing money over everything and anything and expecting that the others wouldn’t notice. This was a different form of charity than the hollow passing of gold, however, but rather a form of mercy. He slid the coat carefully back onto a free hanger, right in the midst of the most tragic collection of outerwear he’d witnessed since his release from Azkaban, and discretely murmured an, incendio, beneath his breath. The coat began to smoulder, slowly, and he turned upon his heel as the first wisps of smoke began to coil away from it.

“Speaking of the spirit of Beltane,” he continued cheerfully, tossing the scarf from around his neck over the coat rack and wandering back towards the exit with a cheerful shooing motion. He imagined it would take at least a few minutes before the coat-check attendant got suspicious enough to check what was happening back there as they slipped out and he closed the door firmly in his wake. “I should find our host — I have a gift for him. But you enjoy your evening,” Bash started to move away, eyes fixed on the crowds before turning back to add, “And Daphne — the Quidditch Gala. That’s just between us, right?”

#&. DAPHNE #DG01 #abevent.02 #d. 1 May 2003 #oh this is terrible but is it an ending?#a miracle!!#remind me 2 hit u up about quidditch shenanigans

ofpansy:

Pansy had a hard time biting her tongue. Thoughts and feelings sat heavily in her mouth, often spouting out words with little to no thought to how harshly they would land. Her parents knew that well - having spent years dealing with the outcomes - and it’s why they pleaded with her to keep quiet about the Beltane incident. She would have argued with them more, had she not seen the intensity in their reactions. She could picture the change in her father’s demeanor when she told them who had pushed her. Their exasperated expressions grew tense, worry and confusion flickering in their eyes. The Lestranges were powerful. Being on their bad side was not a wise choice.

Just as she swore to her parents, Pansy refused to believe that she was pushed as a punishment of some sort. It wasn’t rare that she would anger someone, but she had done nothing to Rabastan to deserve a swin with the swans. And even still, she was scolded into not demanding a reason from the older wix. So maybe it’s why she went off on Blaise a bit too much - though he still deserved some of it, laughing at her like that. She was lucky that she found him first at the press event, getting rid of most of her annoyance, considering that Rabastan decided to approach her not too long after.

She was in the middle of jotting down a few notes when he stopped near her - she was there, after all, to cover the event. Her charmed quill paused above the paper as he spoke. “It is,” she replied, clenching her jaw as she looked out into the pitch, watching as a kid tugged on Blaise’s robes. She wondered if Rabastan even remembered her, deciding it would make it worse if he had put that little thought into that night. Her hands adjusting the badge that weighed heavily around her neck, finding that his presence made her uncomfortable. “Kind words about Minister Parkin. Would you like it to be quoted in the Prophet, Mr. Lestrange?” That was why he was here, wasn’t it? To be seen, and to be seen as generous. It’s why everyone attended these events.

Kind words from Rabastan were best taken with a grain of salt, much like the smile he broadcast in direct competition to the tension written into the lines of her jaw (perhaps Theo had mentioned their brunch to his fiancee). Dark eyes surveyed the crowd that spilled out around them, admiring players committing to the PR spectacle set up around them and took a sip from the champagne glass in his hand before replying, “I can’t imagine there’ll be much print space for kind words with all of the photos being taken — better to conserve them for something worthwhile.”

Skeeter would have cut through the saccharine nonsense and found the juiciest piece of gossip in the vicinity and dug her claws in until she drew blood. He almost fancied he missed her buzzing about the place. Perhaps the Parkinson girl would step up to the plate with a(nother) little push. “I hear that Philbert Deverill is retiring,” which was not strictly true, he supposed, but watching the Puddlemere manager wander through the crowds like he wasn’t aware of the guillotine he was being led towards was all at once both amusing and just a little tragic. “I suppose that makes all this his swan song.”

Ah, that was it. His eyes glittered as he took another sip from his glass, remembering an indignant shriek ringing in his ears after the cinematic splash. The events of Beltane still felt like he’d been watching from the passenger seat, someone else’s hands on the driver’s wheel, but he could hardly forget the tribute who’d made his grand escape worthwhile. “You should ask him about it,” Rabastan offered around the broad, fox-like smile that had begun to creep across his lips, “I’m sure he’ll be relieved to finally make the announcement.”

#&. PANSY #d. 4 May 2003 #PP01

draggingon:

Getting from St. Mungo’s to Wickermann Racing Stables & Stud had been a journey of one too many apparation accidents for eight fucking thirty in the morning. There was a crick in his neck from the night of barely sleeping in the chair next to Tonks’ stupid fucking hospital bed, waking up to every creak and murmured charm by a nurse like he was dozing off on call (even though on call was a concept he hadn’t experienced since February). Summer sun shinning into his eyes, beating down on the back of his steadily reddening neck, wasn’t a negative but a sharp reminder of the life Charlie had been pulled from. It still left a wide grin on his face as he complimented the gorgeous winged creature allowing him to pet it. “Fucking gorgeous, aren’t you? Bloody smaller than I remembered but that’s not your fault.” Or was it that the beasties he had linked to his life were a right fucking bit bigger? This stallion, snorting and stomping and putting on an act worthy of a standing ovation when he had wandered up to its corral, was just seeking some attention. Despite not studying abraxan, not throwing himself headfirst into the world of winged horses and brandy breakfasts and the French, Charlie felt altogether too at home surrounded by the smell of shite and livestock with too many workers running around in a tizzy and creatures far too smart and much too proud to be treated like anything other than gifts to the world. When the shadow of the man who had invited him fell on him and the teethy demon he had decided to occupy his time with, Charlie turned with unbridled joy clear upon his face. “Thought I told you I don’t do dates. Now you’re taking me riding? You’re lucky I’m in it just for your gold.”

“Not a date,” Rabastan replied around a yawn as he tugged on the collar of his riding jacket, the thick smell of dust and horse and hay itching at his nose as he wandered out to the pen, nudging sunglasses further up his nose like they might protect his eyes from the assault of the morning sun or the sweat beading at the back of his neck. He hadn’t slept for days — running on fumes and the insistent voice in the back of his head that told him he didn’t have time to be wasting. His nose wrinkled faintly, as if he were caught in internal debate, before he amended, “Though I suppose this is a date of sorts,” his eyes drifted past Charlie to the date in question, focusing on the abraxan currently bunting it’s head into Charlie’s shoulder in search of more attention.

He considered, for a moment, warning him about the teeth about to find a home in his arm. Instead Bash scratched at the back of his neck and glanced over his shoulder to where the monstrous white stallion that he’d taken a liking to was being led out of the stables. La Bête was in fine form today, if the way the nervous expression that the groom leading him was wearing as he stayed as far away from teeth and hooves as he possibly could was any indication.

“What do you know about Abraxans?” he asked, eyes fixed upon the horse approaching them for a long moment before he chanced another glance in Charlie’s direction, seemingly processing his presence for the first time since he’d wandered over, shaking some of the haze away to ask, “What are you wearing — didn’t someone offer riding clothes?” Had he forgotten to send word ahead to expect a visitor? Beltane felt like an age ago already, a blurring of hours and days that he didn’t care to pick apart with any real scrutiny. “Never mind,” the stallion was already shoving its way into his space, teeth grazing the lapels of his riding jacket in a warning as Bash eased out of the path to rub a hand down the side of its neck. “You have ridden a winged horse before?” he asked, noting that the stallion’s coat was far better groomed than it had been last time he’d made it out to the stables.

#&. CHARLIE #d. 2 May 2003 #CW02

siriusmistakes:

who: @rabastanlcstrange

where: Hogwarts Castle; 1971

Despite all the stories and warnings and advice Sirius had heard over the last few years, he’d never expected Hogwarts to be quite like this. He’d grown up around magic, but the ever-changing ceiling of the Great Hall that seemed to open up to the heavens amazed him (“Potter! Potter, how do they get it like that? A charm, you reckon?”), as did the swarms of owls each morning during breakfast (though it had been less amazing when the raven-colored owl named Archimedes descended upon him with a Howler embossed with the Black Family coat of arms); even the food appearing on the gleaming gold platters as if from nowhere (though he’d seen countless charms of the same nature) caused his eyes to widen as round as galleons. Perhaps it wasn’t the magic itself that drew Sirius in so heavily, but the sheer quantity of it all – everywhere he looked things teemed with touches of magic.

Just a week in, and Sirius had already 1) befriended a ghost, 2) locked the caretaker’s cat inside a suit of armor and 3) gotten detention for locking said cat inside a suit of armor. Hogwarts seemed to have everything a young Sirius Black could dream of: three scrumptious meals a day, very little contact with his parents, and classes in which Sirius could show just how smart he really was. There only was one downside to what the castle offered – and really, it wasn’t a problem to him, but to others, well… it was all that mattered – and that had to do with the scarlet and gold tie that draped around his robes, such a distinct contrast from the silver and emerald ones that Slytherin House wore.

Saturday dawned breezily for September, and Sirius (with a half-asleep James Potter in tow) trekked down to the Great Hall before most of the other students had gotten up. Excitement bubbled in the pit of his stomach. He sat with his leg bouncing, scarfing down his breakfast with an alarming ferocity, his eyes continuously flickering to the great oak doors, searching, searching, searching.

In a single instant, Sirius’s features lit up and he bounded forward as he caught sight of one Rabastan Lestrange. Eleven years worth of friendship certainly couldn’t be erased by the silly little tiff they’d had on the train. Friends always bickered, but really, it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle.

“Bash, oh Merlin, have you seen this place? And have you been in the trophy room yet? That’s where I had to serve my detention.. Polishing trophy cases for two hours… Seems a bit steep considering we just shut that nosy cat in a suit of armor, I mean, James and I were gonna let it out eventually. And did you know the staircases move? They move! A boy in my House got caught on one of the trick steps; Paul, maybe? Or Porter? Two of the prefects had to grab ‘im by the armpits and just hoist him out. Mental, isn’t it? But how was your first week? D’you like Charms? I think it’s my favorite so far.” Sirius had barely stopped to take a breath, trying to get in all the points he’d been dying to tell his friend for the past week.

Rabastan was fairly certain that he already hated Hogwarts.

The castle was full of people determined to tell him where to be and who to sit with and what to wear; the classes were dull, the food was average and one of his dormmates had been crying every single night for the past week, despite the fact that his parents had sent him letters every day and Bash had received only one letter from his grandparents to congratulate him on his sorting — like being told by a gross, old, musty hat where to sit for the next seven years was an accomplishment — and the other one may not have bathed in the entire time they had been there. It was gross. He was gross.

And Bash was bored, in the way that Bash only got when people tried to make him learn things or sit still when he did not wish to do either, and Professor Slughorn had already dubbed him a ‘very spirited young man’ (whatever that was supposed to mean) in an impromptu meeting in his office after their first potions lesson where he had extolled on Rodolphus’s talents and his hopes that Rabastan might follow in his footsteps. Bash couldn’t think of anything worse. Rodolphus’s long list of warnings about what not to do and who not to annoy had been promptly written off after that meeting, replaced instead by Cissa’s endless pinching of his arm during each class because starting a war with the entire faculty in your first week was, perhaps, just a little premature.

But perhaps the biggest disappointment of a considerable many took the shape of Sirius Black, skidding up to him in the middle of the Great Hall with his new shadow in tow to tell him all about how brilliant his first week had been far away from Bash and with that stupid, gaudy, Gryffindor tie slung around his neck. Suddenly, acutely, Bash wanted more than anything to be back in Provence and nowhere near the miserable Scottish countryside.

“Oh, so you’re talking to me now?” he asked when he could finally get a word in edgewise, eyes darting past Sirius to narrow at his Potter-shaped shadow before returning back to his former friend’s face. He couldn’t tell if he was angry about the colours knotted around Sirius’s neck or painfully jealous of them. Perhaps he was both. “I can’t see Gryffindors.”

Which wasn’t as mean as he’d really wanted it to be, but it would have to do. (Except it wouldn’t really do, because Bash had yet to learn the art of walking away from people who betrayed him.) He frowned, glanced aside and then hissed, “We can’t talk here,” before stalking hastily back towards the humongous double doors.

#&. SIRIUS #d. September 1971 #SB01 #how do you child??

rodolphuslcstrange:

ravenousappetite:

Cavalier opened his mouth to contest Rodolphus’ outlandish claims, but his lips immediately slammed shut. There was a strain, followed by a gasp that was practically inaudible considering the oxygen was being strangled from his lungs. The last trace of it evaporated from his tongue as he dramatically flailed both arms, nervously clawing at his throat and the disorientating pain that followed.

Cavalier can’t breathe.

Rabastan’s words almost seemed taunting, but Cavi reckoned it was just his desperation to live. An anxiety that already pressed on him heavily. He was already coping with a lot—bestowing surprise to even himself that a man with a cold heart and harden shell could also experience such a raw thing as grief. Grief over the life lost and possibility of absolution. It was easier hating someone while they were still alive, and perhaps more forgiving on thyself. Their absence was optional and therefore powerful by Cavalier Avery’s standards. Life always left room for more. Delmore Avery’s death on the other hand was painful and unexpected, detonating off inside him like a bomb. It closed doors Cavi hadn’t even yet realized he was leaving open, pinged by a traumatic moment that would forever be seared into his brain. There were days he was fine, calm like the ocean‘s surface and void of all feeling. Other days the tide was too strong brewed by the surpassing storm. Even a man of his stature couldn’t withstand its death grip, drowning him in waves of—remorse? Guilt? Perhaps the shame of being a horrible son and brother? He didn’t think he was also a horrible friend, but maybe those he considered himself closest to shared an opposing worldview.

Bash wasn’t wrong. In fact, there were seldom times the wizard was wrong. His self-dubbed best friend was unusually aware of his surroundings—a force of nature and subject of intrigue. It was a trait Cavalier was admittedly jealous of, though none of that was why he tasked an army of trained security professionals to tail him around the party all night. No, that reason was much simpler—the fact that Bash pushed a Parkinson in the swan pond this early into the night should have told anyone everything they needed to know. Bash was a liability in the best way possible. The wix was full of thrills, and adept at keeping those he was surrounded by on their toes at all times. Cavi loved the excitement—that was partially the reason why he interjected himself so adamantly at the center of both Rabastan and Rodolphus’ lives. He was drawn to them like a moth addicted to the light despite its potent sting. This was one of those times its sting was tangible, residing in the back of his throat like a caged wild animal clawing to break free.

His desire to breathe was innate, carouseling around in his chest savagely. He thumbed at the bow tie still rapidly shrinking around his neck, unable to loosen it or plead for either of his beloved friends to do so. Instead he fumbled on his feet, shooting pleading glances between the two. If this was how they showed their love and appreciation then it was much more twisted than the Avery Family’s preferred method of delivery. Then again, he wasn’t exactly on speaking terms with his family either. There were no congratulatory surprises or letters of good luck and good fortune being exchanged. Instead he was left to celebrate his success alone and, though he wasn’t alone in the flesh, he was alone in spirit and namesake. Cavi clung to the Lestranges like a passenger tossed overboard at sea, desperate for another chance at life and the redemption that entailed.

The wizard wheezed again, the sensation his lungs might collapse becoming much more prominent. Cavi, now ignoring Rodolphus out of the sheer will to survive, placed a tentative hand on Bash’s shoulder—his eyes a softer texture as they silently begged his friend for further assistance. After all, the wizard reckoned it was better to have a hurt ego than whatever fatal alternative this scenario was verging the boundaries of.

╔

Grandpere’s words offered up to him was a pacifying measure Rodolphus did not have the time to acknowledge as he stared upon the face of idiocy straining against the confines of fabric. It was all proof. Blood, lineage, and tradition were pillars of their world but being born into a position of privilege did not mean you did not have to work for your place in life. Cavalier Avery was a weak man. A wizard with half his background would have seen that acting like an unloved child was not the way to ingrain himself into whatever it was about the Lestranges that left the man so desperate. It was fleeting. Passion. Excitement. All the positive emotions associated with power of will he long thought he had lost the ability to feel. The ghost of amusement taunting him with the gift of a boy still playing the fool , flailing and wheezing as if this show would make him sympathetic. He could even attempt to look apologetic. Another tick on the list of reasons their lives would be much simpler if Cavalier was removed from the situation.

“A Lestrange does what they wish.” He responded in turn with the next statement in a code repeated throughout their distanced childhoods, letting his hand be removed from the fabric it had been clutching near the point of ruin and bringing his wand hand up until it was leveled at Cavalier. It was right there, the emotion that rarely made itself present in Rodolphus’ life. Delight. His wand barely moved, a flicker in his precise and steady hold to increase the rate of constriction until the lack of oxygen was clear on Cavalier’s reddening face and a smirk more commonly found on the face of his brother was broadcasting from his own lips.

If he could see past his fervor, become aware of his brother’s words more than the unintelligible drone that they had faded into, the familiarity of the situation would be all too startling. An overexcited child flirting with death. A fixation on Rabastan that seemed to surpass all reasoning. Attempting to worm his way into a family unit where he did not belong. Cavalier wasn’t Barty. He didn’t have the skill or charm. His intelligence was lacking. Potential was dangerous enough.

His wand still trained on the outsider, Rodolphus’ head turned toward his brother. His gaze held no shadow of doubt that his actions weren’t the correct path for them to take, pupils blown so wider the blue of his irises were hardly visible. The tension in his jaw clear as spoke with sharp, clipped consonants. “He doesn’t deserve to.” His wand arm moved with a decisive slashing moment, silencing the gasping breaths that had been filling the space. “It’s Beltane.” Teaching respect was far more in line with how he wished to celebrate the evening. Cavalier’s role could begin once he understood his place in life. Tapping the end of his wand against the fingers clutching onto his brother’s shoulder, as if Rabastan had the capacity for empathy for him, Rodolphus took in the picture before him once more. He stepped forward, once again ignoring Rabastan and his mutter to grasp the fingers of the leech and bend the joints back until a crack was heard and they could no longer seek the help the man desperately reached for. “Don’t. Touch.”

@rabastanlcstrange

This was a miscalculation.

An alignment tipped out of balance, a thread snagged out of place — Bash could feel it, a note of discord that crawled down his spine in accordance with the light that spilled across his brother’s face in the form of a joy that Rabastan had come to associate with catastrophe. That was the face of fear; it was an expression that had only ever heralded destruction in his life and here it was again, threatening to send the night careening off the rails in the wrong direction.

Not again. His ribcage like a vice, squeezing tight around his lungs as the sharp ache of his shoulder, as blood pooled in the spaces that fingers had just released, throbbed. Not tonight. There was no reason to be had here — Rabastan had come to know and to dread the madness that dwelt upon the edges of his brother’s rigidly kept control. He feared it — what it meant to his life, what it heralded into being. Rabastan had followed that madness into the cells of Azkaban once and he would not allow it to drag him back there.

A crack of bone turned his head and his wand (when had he drawn that, surely it was not by his own volition) rose, a sharp slicing motion that split the fabric from Cavalier’s straining throat in one swift motion and nicked the skin beneath, the strip of silk fluttering away down the stairs. It was an opening shot, a precursor to something bigger; it was his fingers that clawed a grip of the front of his brother’s shirt, his forearm that locked across the barrel of his chest and launched his weight into, one then two then three steps back until they collided with the imperfect finish of the stairwell with a rattling of bones. It was his black eyes, distant and cold and forever focused elsewhere on weaving together one perfect night before the curtain dropped turned suddenly, clinically, upon Rodolphus as if he were an obstacle in his path and it was his face devoid of even the most vicious of smiles, that tipped forward, stared right into the madness that Rabastan had come to know and fear and softly, coldly, came the command of, “No.”

It was Rabastan’s face and his eyes and his mouth, his tongue that shaped the words, but what watched from behind them was something else entirely.

It was his time. It was his night. It was his game. It would not be interrupted.

“Leave,” he snapped, another order directed towards Cavalier whose silent rattling gasps of air were a roving target, but his eyes did not shift. He didn’t need to lose a piece from the board before the night had even begun. “You have a busy night ahead of you, Cavi.”

The smile that spread like an oil slick across his face wasn’t his, the focal point of his attention drifting as his hands rose, wand twirling between his fingers with a theatrical flourish as he took a step backward and added, “As do I.”

And Rodolphus would do well to remember his own role.

@ravenousappetite

#&. CAVALIER #&. RODOLPHUS #CA01 #RL01 #abevent.02 #d. 1 May 2003 #i see ur making my life difficult again #choking cw #violence cw

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#for all the kids ty #&. MEMES

WHO @blanchexxprimpernelle & @nvmalfoy WHEN 12 June 2003. WHERE The Augurey Club.

The sunglasses were a poor disguise. Perched upon the bridge of his nose and designed to keep the world out or another world in, they had done little in the way of providing a shield either way — he felt scrubbed raw and exposed, every nerve awake and inflamed. Bash could hear the whispers floating around the patio, could taste the distinct lack of champagne in his mimosa (clearly Rolf had gotten to them here, too) and with each passing moment the urge to drive the stem of that crystal glass into the nearest overly-deferential neck was becoming a more viable option. And yet.

He took a sip of orange juice and soda water (a monstrosity), nose wrinkling and teeth bared in a smile that had turned half-feral as his head turned in anticipation of the click of heels upon the tiles of the patio. “You’re late,” he offered, raising his half-full glass of not-mimosa into the air in the hopes it might be swept away and replaced with one less disappointing. Time was slippery at the moment, skittering away between his fingers whenever he tried to pluck at the strings of it. “You missed the shift-change for the pool boys.”

#&. BLANCHE #&. NARCISSA #d. 12 June 2003 #BP01 #NM01 #xoxo choose your own order

draggingon:

Mssr Duke Bash,

What the fuck is a valet and why do you think I have one?

- ᥴꫝꪖ᥅ꪶ꠸ꫀ

Charles,

I would send mine, but I suspect he’d find nothing to work with. I’ll have something suitable brought to the stables instead.

— Bash.

P.S. I do not like to be kept waiting.

#&. CHARLIE #CW02 #d. 2 May 2003

fredy-carter

BEN BARNES for Ami Paris

#&.

bellalestrvnge:

Heels clicking against the floor as Bellatrix walked with as fast a pace as she could muster without running. Running would almost certainly arise suspicions, and she was sure that while healers may well run around the halls of St Mungo’s board members were far more unlikely to do so. Why the hell didn’t she stun a healer? She’d have had a much easier run of it. And this place was like a fucking maze. Perhaps it was intentionally difficult so that patients who decided to make a break for it wouldn’t even be able to find reception, never mind the fireplaces for the floo.

Rounding a corner, a small sigh of relief escaped her lips at a sign on the wall pointing the right way for specific departments. She’d barely paused for a moment to read it and get her bearings when some heavy footprints appeared behind her. Her fellow board member had come back to haunt her, and his hand came down to rest on her elbow again. The touch was familiar, more familiar than colleagues should be. “Orla,” the man murmured, reaching up to brush some hair from her face before holding his hand against her forehead. Checking her temperature was merely the ruse, Bellatrix determined - and she knew she had to get out of there then.

Ethan, his name tag advised, pulled her into a side room used for storage. “Are you quite well?” he asked, eyes shining with concern. “It’s unlike you to disappear just before a meeting.” Bellatrix nodded slowly, reaching up to caress his face. With that movement she loosened her wand from within her sleeve, and murmured “somnum.” Ethan crumpled to the ground, hitting his head off a shelf in the process. Perhaps not as quiet as she’d intended, but the job was done anyway.

Slipping out of the side room, Bellatrix flicked her wand to lock the door. It wouldn’t slow them for long, but it was another inconvenience that would allow herself and Bash to get the job done. Casting another glance at the sign post, Bellatrix headed towards the stairs that would lead her to the fourth floor.

Determined that her time with Ethan in the closet would remain entirely private, for Bella didn’t want to deal with Rolf’s moods, she wondered where Bash was. as she slowed to a stop outside the Janus Thickey ward, Bella knew she had a small window that she could linger outside before someone would ask questions. Then they had to clear Janus Thickey to even get anywhere near Trelawney.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this plan wasn’t fully thought out. Eyes fixed upon a clock on the wall, Bella would give Bash five minutes before she went in alone. Tick, tock.

“Enough.”

Swatting the hand that rose towards his chin away, Bash narrowed Poke’s comically wide blue eyes at the man before him in warning. Jerry, if anything, seemed mostly confused by this development. “I am a Healer and—”

“And?” Jerry prompted gently, as if this were somehow a familiar script that he was falling back into. There was understanding brimming in his insipid brown eyes, a hand settling upon Poke’s round little shoulder.

“And I deserve—” Bash started to say, frowning when he found the other man had started mouthing words along with him.

“You deserve respect,” Jerry finished for him, squeezing his shoulder, “Was it the Malfoy’s again, Poke? I know there’s that Board Meeting today. Did they corner you on the way in? You know you shouldn’t let them get to you, they do it to all the Healers. They got the tea-lady in the cafeteria fired last week. You’ve been crying, haven’t you? Don’t you worry about it, Poke, you’re the best Midwife we’ve got in this hospital. If you need a nice cup of tea and a biscuit before you start rounds you know we won’t think any less of you.”

Bash stared back at him, blinking rapidly before agreeing, “Yes — it was — it was the Malfoys,” trying to process the swift process they had been making towards the wards as the word midwife rang in his ears. “I’ll — uh, I’ll meet you up there.”

With dewy eyes Jerry nodded at him, stepping forward to enfold him in perhaps the most crushing embrace that he recalled ever experiencing, filled with warmth and compassion. Rabastan’s stomach rolled uneasily as it lingered, and lingered, and lingered, fingers cradling the back of his head and smoothing through his hair, before he was finally released. “You stay strong, Poke,” Jerry whispered fiercely, patting the side of his face before he turned to stride away up the corridor, turning right into the wards and leaving Rabastan to stalk hastily in the other direction, hammering upon the elevator doors and trying to rub away the odd crawling of his skin at the feeling of being hugged and pawed at.

It didn’t abate as he stepped into the elevator, nor as he followed it up to level four — it was only as he stalked down another gleaming corridor, head ducked lest someone else decide to start mauling him in the middle of the workplace appeared, that he began to feel less like a walking target at the sight of Bellatrix — or rather, Orla, loitering outside a locked door.

“We need to get out of here,” Bash hissed as he swept in closer, the panicky feeling in his chest that had absolutely nothing to do with proximity to that door faltering as he reminded himself who he was talking to. “Lets just — lets get this over with. I want to know if Jean’s stupid enough to give Albert another chance.”

#&. BELLATRIX #BL03 #d. 7 April 2003

bruisedbell:

“ Think? ” Katie laughed quietly. “ Thinking doesn’t usually cut it in my line of work, but I hope you’re right on account I’m putting all my bets on you. ” She said lightheartedly, the levity evident in quirky smile. This diversion was more fun than she could have hoped—a nice distraction from the unsettling fact each of her friends dropped like flies on a night she demanded the spotlight ( she was still trying to figure out how that was any different from other nights aside from being able to play the birthday card unrelentlessly ). The hit witch proceeded to gather the bottom hem of her neon dress into her hands, allowing her the freedom to travel across the remaining stones much easier. The clicking! of her heels reverberating on the smooth surface of the stones was therapeutic. It turns out her outfit was the only component in the evening she had any actual control over. There was some satisfaction knowing at least one thing was going to her liking, however minimal that was.

Bash and his enchanting flower crown seemed to be a different kind of gift entirely. At least someone was interested in amusing her for a short period of time. It wasn’t the person she hoped it would be, a certain redhead with a kindred spirit she was actively seeking out in the crowd prior to this run-in, but in true Taurus fashion she was always open to spontaneity. If she was closed off to opportunities like this then she would potentially never find the volcano bar, nor be able to return to her friends with epic stories about her journey there with a charming stranger they’d probably refuse to believe existed at all.

Katie brushed passed her new friend before quickly arriving at the very last stone along the path of faux volcanic rock. Bash’s decision to fork left led them away from the masses and toward a semblance of privacy rocking the shallow bed of lava against the rock she stood on like waves battering the shoreline. She stared at the unusual scene around her, riddling her foot in perplexity against the impermeable surface. The action unexpectedly caused a portion of the volcano to shift forward revealing a hidden door blended into its volcanic spine, otherwise invisible to the naked eye. A stream of music flitted out the opening, no doubt a different soundtrack than the one occupying the main surround sound.

Katie took half a glance at Rabastan through her peripherals. She occupied the last stepping stone, which wrongfully allured there was no where to go except back from where one came. The door a few meters away however proved otherwise. A quick overlook of the terrain informed Katie they were going to have to travel along the carefully curated base of the now interactive art-installation in order to arrive at their destination, which would fulfill a fantasy she didn’t even know she had—scaling the volcano’s edge. At the sudden revelation her lips contorted into some sort of devilish smirk, only allowing a second of time to pass in-between before propelling herself onto the artificial decor. Who thought of such an outlandish theme for a traditional celebration and why was it so thrilling?

“ Have you ever scaled a volcano before? ” Katie inquired as she made her way toward the opening. She wasted no time disappearing into its lava molten enclad entrance as if it were the rabbit hole leading to wonderland.

Bash had never, in fact, scaled a volcano before, but he was in no way unaccustomed to following his whims to whatever ends they chose to lead him to and whatever absurdity waited on the other side of this particular challenge he could imagine would be something equally ludicrous. Perhaps volcanos and overly enthusiastic girls in neon dresses weren’t all that the night held in store for him, but he was certain that this would be entertaining at the very least.

He could only imagine that Cavi must have gotten a kick out of the idea of this as he edged after her, slippery dress shoes uniquely ill-equipped to the task finding sure-enough footing as he followed her towards the glowing entrance into the center of the volcano, following some few steps behind as he stepped inside.

A curiously pineapple scented fog swirled around his feet, the luminous shifting shades of orange and red and vibrant yellow that seemed to illuminate everything inside of the space coiling happily around the tail-end of an earlier high as a different soundtrack covered up the frantic bass of the one outside. The air was humid and thick and sweet, the clink of glasses and laughter leading the way through the atmospheric fog towards the bar where the closer they got to the sounds, the more distinctive the bright peals of laughter and rhythmic rise and fall of a master storyteller engaged in his craft seemed to fill the space.

“One more,” someone was called over the crowd as they laughed and sighed and gasped in all the right places, “Tell us one more before you go, Gilderoy.”

Rabastan paused in his advance, eyes narrowing in faint suspicion that became all too apparent as he caught a glimpse of a familiar profile, plastered across magazines and posters and bookstores across the wizarding world for years now. “Oh, my dears, you know my time is in such demand, I couldn’t possibly,” Lockhart was protesting, all false modesty and broad smile before immediately launching into another story. Bash’s lips twitched, faintly, at the corner.

“Can you believe—” he started to ask before his eyes caught upon the strange expression that had settled over The May Queen’s face.

#&. KATIE #d. 1 May 2003 #abevent.02 #KB01 #jvn voice #can you BELIEVE

draggingon:

A loud snort filled the air, a picked up laugh he could never seem to get rid of. “Yeah but of you?” Charlie was looser, more relaxed, and he couldn’t say if it was the drink, the dancing, the fighting, or the company. Physical activity, getting his blood running hot, had always been the best way to sort his shite out. He didn’t feel himself until he had thrusted himself right into the middle of the fray. “Don’t get it. Wouldn’t call you an intimating man to work for.”

Middle of the fray it was. Charlie leaned in, smirking and tipsily raising his brows. It was time things just fell into his lap, that he got his luck back again. “Depends. There any rules I need to know about? Like, I can’t touch a Duke but you can go about grabbing whoever the fuck you want off the dance floor and giving them free shit? If it’s that and being a prick, I think I can manage.”

He didn’t pick up on everything people said. Especially people who spoke in half-truths and complicated round about ways that just left him taking their words at face value but the expression on the Duke’s face was one he recognized and left a sour taste in his mouth. “Family can be bullshite. Get in the middle and mess every thing up. Why the fuck do you think I fucked off to Romania? My older brother did it first. Got himself to Egypt but they sucked him back in. You reckon they’re gonna try to do it to me next?” But they were. Already.

He stretched his iced hand out, balancing the glass as his fingers brushed Bash’s. “Yeah. ‘Course I am but I didn’t fucking say that. You seem like you can handle wild shite just fine but for how long? Get fucking bored easily and sell them off or whatever?” His hand was drawn back, the melted ice and long gone drink being tipped back to finish it off as Charlie’s smile cooled. “I, uh, I don’t do dates. But thanks.”

“I don’t scare you?” Rabastan’s head tilted, eyes narrowed in consideration. A novelty, certainly, considering even those amongst his peers who had once considered him a nonsensical waste of blood purity, cheekbones and voluminous hair were now considerably more cautious around him. Attempts to rehabilitate the Lestrange name, to soften it’s brooding edges and the bloodstains embedded in the framework, had met decided opposition from his sister-in-law over the years. Being considered harmless had always been an uphill battle — largely because they never had been, and never would be. His fingers coiled around the edge of the bar for a moment before relaxing, smoothing across the finish of the wood distractedly. “For the best, I imagine. There are far better ways to motivate your staff, don’t you think?”

And that was it — wasn’t it? Rolf would hate this man — hate every impudent, insulting little comment that left his mouth accompanied by that delighted, shit-eating grin. It had the paradoxical effect of making Bash that much more amused by them. “You don’t seem like the type to follow rules.” He wondered absently if Charlie the Dragonologist had half the talent for getting himself out of trouble that he seemed to have for getting himself into it, if he’d be half so irritating to his brother as a lacklustre drunk who’d passed the prime of his racing relevancy while they were still in Azkaban. “Though I’m starting to wonder if what you’re looking for is trouble. Is that why you came here tonight?”

His dark eyes glittered for a moment with something indecipherable, as if the infinite possibilities of the night before him were expanding in every direction and he could reach out and tug upon the thread he wanted if only he concentrated hard enough, before his smile sharpened, distracted again. “You can never escape your family,” he replied instead with some muted acceptance, Scotch settled warm and heavy in the pit of his stomach but there was something clawing for his attention at the back of his mind. He wasn’t here tonight to socialise. Not really.

And it seemed that Bash had pushed a button of his own, though he couldn’t begin to retrace his steps to fathom which one it was. The distinct cooling of attention drawing something sharp to the corner of his lips. His own attention was needed elsewhere, recruitment would have to wait for another, less strenuous, day. “It’s a good thing I’m not looking for a date,” he replied, easing back to his feet and clapping a hand to Charlie’s shoulder as he made to slip away, lingering a moment over solid, corded muscle only to add, “I’ll be in touch.”

His shadows moved with him, skittering through the crowd as Bash slipped back into the masses. Perhaps Charlie might prove useful after all.

#&. CHARLIE #CW01 #d. 1 May 2003 #is this an ending?#who can never be sure

ravenousappetite:

Cavi wasn’t anticipating having any visitors today. It was the one sacred day a week he scheduled himself time away from both The Raven and Club Raven. It was a necessary retreat from his highly stressful life as prestigious club owner, and admittedly after the past week he’d endured this particular break was welcomed with open arms. Even as an extrovert, there were rare occasions the wizard needed to seek sanctuary by himself so he could recharge. The past seven days were more stressful than he ever hoped they would be. He spent the incessantly slow passing days replaying the events of Beltane over and over in his head—tormented knowing there’s many things he would do differently and others he wouldn’t change if given the chance.

A dark energy from the night manifested, its tension sustaining its own death grip around him. It was so much pressure placed on one man. No one else was responsible for his actions. He wielded the power, which had since dissipated—leaving behind the mere shell of the man who drew his wand so carelessly. Self-doubt was not a good look on him. Now the wizard feared the thought of anyone finding out it was actually his greatest weakness. Not even Rabastan, who he considered his closest friend. The only person Cavi would ever consider taking a bullet for.

However, when Cavalier swung open the giant twin mahogany doors guarding his penthouse to reveal Bash standing there, he was not all that surprised. Maybe the universe intended for him not to be alone with such grueling thoughts after all.

“ Bash? ” There was a flit in his voice—one that indicated he recognized the look of mischief on his friend’s face all too well. “ What is it? ” It was hard not to reciprocate a sprawling grin of his own at the mention of a gift. Both eyebrows shot up across his face as he eyed this unexpected house guest up and down before closing the door behind him. “ Am I even dressed properly for one of your gifts? ” He inquired, only half-joking before proceeding to lead them to a sunken seating area featuring a three piece teal velvet couch set and a highly unsual array of antiques, including Cavi’s prized Renaissance Cavalier Musketeer Statues—a historic pillar in his picturesque penthouse.

“ You journeyed all the way here, can I at least interest you in a libation or anything? ” He gestured to a nearby whiskey decanter, full to the brim with an illuminating ember liquid. At least Cavi’s hospitality was always on point.

The smell of self-doubt and sadness wafted out through the doors of Cavalier’s penthouse, a place that Rabastan had often wondered about and often deemed a thought too troubling to pursue in any great detail. The Avery measure of taste had always been questionable but as he swept inside, every crisp snap of the soles of his oxfords upon the marble floors ricocheting around the high ceilings, it became apparent that it had manifested itself with the highest concentration of detail inside of Cavi’s private sanctuary.

The questioning lilt attached to his name was ignored in favour of gawking a little longer, his attention darting from oddity to oddity, proudly displayed upon every gleaming surface — from gay musketeer statues in sterling silver that he resisted the urge to poke at if only because of Cavi’s penchant for items of the cursed persuasion to bewildering items of velvet furniture that Bash dropped down to laze upon, smile crawling up at the corners into an ominously familiar fox-like smile. It was the one that surfaced when he had a plan.

“A little housewarming gift,” he offered after a moment, withdrawing the velvet shrouded jar that had been tucked so carefully beneath his arm and presenting it to Cavi with a flourish. “In honour of the success of your grand opening. I’m afraid the accomplishment has been rather forgotten amidst all havoc of the night.”

There had been a distinct feeling of foreboding dogging Rabastan’s steps since Beltane, the feeling that usually began to itch between his shoulderblades whenever Rolf had found something to be displeased about and had not sated his displeasure in other ways. It was a feeling that his older brother had seemed to inherit the ability to inspire the moment that their father had died. The kind of inheritance that Rabastan had always rather imagined was Rolf’s birthright — Bash had always shown a remarkable aptitude for disappointing his family.

“A drink,” he agreed, licking his lips absently against the eerily prescient feeling creeping up the back of his neck that told him that this was an offer he shouldn’t pass up, “Make it a double, Cavi, something strong. Not whatever it was your bartender were serving the other night — I rather suspect he was trying to water it down on me. And then you must open your gift. I put a great deal of thought into it.”

#&. CAVALIER #CA02 #d. 7 May 2003 #alcohol tw

draggingon:

Duke Bash,

How do you dress for riding? - ᥴꫝꪖ᥅ꪶ꠸ꫀ

Mssr Charles,

Perhaps a question that you should ask your valet?

- Bash.

#d. 2 May 2003 #CW02 #&. CHARLIE

oxford-comma-luver

#&.

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