DEVASTATION.

To be a Carrow was to be a private, deeply sacramental pursuant of power - but to be Evadne was to pad through marble halls in black silk, kissing serpents at twilight. She possessed a duality rare among the rest - the ability to be both feminine and terrifying, deceivingly soft and surprisingly sharp. You devastate me, they all said to her. How many times had she been told that she resembled their darkest dreams?

[reginaserpentes-blog]

khalilahshafiq:

Kitty had not cared much for allegiance, her role in the Resistance had not been parallel to how the Knights lapped at the feet of Tom Riddle. She was not friends with Declan or any of the others when they go to meetings, with her arms crossed, she insisted her ideas were always better than the leader’s. ‘When he leaves I’ll become the leader.’ Her eyes shining under the moonlight, dazzling with greed because she wanted full control. Declan was not her friend and it was only fair of her to steal the thing he loved most. Graduate lion boy, I’ll take control. It was what she did best. Head Girl, leader of the Resistance, Quidditch Captain. The titles she would have, pinned to her cloak for all to see. 

“Do you expect me to cheer for the lions when we know Prewett and Chambers are no match for any of the other chasers?” Kitty tilted her head slightly, arms crossed over her chest, mockingly. The sunlight caught the pin, glaring like jewels embedded in rock. Cygnus Black. His cocky smile, hooded eyes dazzled with glory, a wink was all it took to have the crowd swooning. She could hear the announcer now, “Cygnus Black, #7, scores a goal and the crowd erupts!!” How pretentious he would be, walking up to Kitty sometime after a glorious win, boasting about the plays he made. 

The irony if he were to walk up now, two pureblood women draped on his arms, a perfect vision in a perfect world in a perfect dream. But Khalilah did not like him nor did she play with his heartstrings the way Evadne had, and it was not a lie when she would tell the prince of darkness how much she hated him. 

“I would ruin my robes if I were to pin your face to them, Eva.” Kitty sighed, batting her eyelashes. “I must say, your craftsmanship is much better than any performance by far. A shame if they were to be hexed to defame your precious name, and the rest.” As she spoke, Kittu reached out, a sharp nail tapping the pin inside of Evadne’s open palm, pressing the back into her skin while her eyes glared into her’s. “I’m surprised you haven’t made any of Riddle for you to wear, the Knights of Walpurgis, isn’t it? Don’t let your enthusiasm stop with just quidditch babydoll.” Kitty winked, the gold eyeliner catching the light. 

There had been a time she considered joining the Knights, a late night talk with Cyngus Black as he told her all about it. The whisper of an infamous group, prestigious club for only the strong-minded, ambitious. Kitty was just that, wasn’t she? It wasn’t until she found out the selected few, pureblood members of the society she grew up in, were only strung together under the name of Tom Riddle because of their blood-prejudice views. It was a title she would bare her teeth and claws for, a title that begged for her to obtain, but her father taught her to never exclude the other’s, muggleborns and half-bloods were just as strong as the purebloods. 

“Awh, Kitty baby! I’m flattered,” Evadne coos, sickly sweet. She subtly assesses the other girl’s uniform as she speaks; always critical, always criticizing. Creases are nonexistent, pressed and ironed by expert hands -- but the way that blue looked in the sun? The quality of those...lukewarm opinions? Intrinsically inferior. In no way respectable. “I mean, we are the cat’s meow -- but to hear it from a quidditch captain; well. It puts it all into perspective.” It was a whole slew of shit, but anyone who knew anything knew that there was nothing Kitty Shafiq liked more than a chance to preen her own feathers. The deeper the shit, the better the outcome. Still, just because the peacock preens, doesn’t mean it should escape the hunting knife. 

A shame if they were to be hexed to defame your precious name, and the rest.

Eva’s brow wrinkles at the very thought of defamation. For a girl who had fought and clawed and bit her way to the top of a precarious social hierarchy, the dirtiest words that could be said to her were dethrone and defame and perhaps most of all, deny. “Who would dare?” she retorts -- but then, before she can say more, Kitty has moved onto a subject that must not be spoken of, and in the span of milliseconds, all the blood drains from Evadne’s face. And there it is, an ice-cold chill shivering up her spine, the darkening of her gaze, her posture suddenly stiff, straight, full of terror. 

Terror -- and fury. 

“What did you say?” she snaps, and like a whip, her free hand darts out and grabs hold of Kitty’s wrist, so tight that her knuckles immediately grow white with the effort of it. The hand with the pin in it closes into a fist; and though the clasp has come loose and digs, bloody, into her flesh, she doesn’t flinch. No -- something dark and primal has taken her; the tendons of her neck grow taut as she raises her chin, as her eyes grow narrow. The playful smile is gone, and in its place is a stare of intense distrust and imminent survival. “What the fuck did you just say, Shafiq?” 

Besides her, her boys have fallen silent. They too wear solemn masks; the masks of soldiers who sense a threat against their kingdom, their king. But to Evadne; her king is her god. With a sharp tug, she pulls the Ravenclaw into the alcove, out of the sun and into the cool shadow. She would not like any heathen deface her god. 

“Who,” and she’s seething, voice lowering into a growl. Her nails dig in, they dig deep; but if you knew her, if you really knew her, you would see that she is afraid -- “the fuck told you about that?” Even on her tongue, to speak of the Knights in broad daylight was to blasphemize against the unholy. She leans in close, so close that she can see the black of Shafiq’s pupils. She’s hissing. “Answer me now, or I swear to Circe I’ll pin you to the fucking wall.” 

[reginaserpentes-blog]

vntonin:

Sense of spirit surrounding the impending Quidditch match - a clash of green and red, insults hurled from across stone halls - was gone about with much more grandeur here than at home. Antonin would have felt nearly smothered by it all, were he not upon a pedestal at the center; the icy coolness with which he regarded the student body melted beneath the near-constant pressure of sportsmanship which rallied them all. It seemed to have made them all forget that the best and brightest among them had nearly been consumed by the bloody squid, that a hole had been blown in their precious stronghold - there was nothing, he figured, like sport to boot and rally a people. And what a sport it was; it was only fitting that he’d swooped in and swept tryouts earlier in the month, easily snatching up the position of Seeker and earning the befitting adoration of countless Slytherin girls who were like to throw themselves at the feet of who was meant to be their new Quidditch star. And he could not deny the certain pride he felt for his team from the onset - it was a start, at least. 

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, he sent a wink across the courtyard, smirking lips tugged upward at the sight of green-clad girls giggling at his attention. Were it not for her voice, he might have run right into the face he’d not been like to expunge from his immediate memory, the lithe specter who seemed to arrive at always the opportune moment. A short stop and a languid bloom of ever-present smirk, Antonin’s eyes fell to the glinting pin upon her lapel. “Sure thing, baby,” his thick dialect muddled the teasingly British affectation as his chin jutted upward, hand outstretched, “The anticipation is a welcome change to the air of this place - it would only be appropriate to partake.” 

And here he is, her Russian wolf (not hers yet, but she was like a jealous god, laying claim to all), domiciled lightly, precariously; made palatable by the black robes weighing upon his shoulders, the verdant tie hanging about his neck in casual vainglory. She takes hold of it now, one slim hand wrapping about the silk and using it to pull him close; like a hound upon a leash. And would he bite? Evadne, with dark-hooded eyes, smiles. No, he wouldn’t bite her. Not now. Not like this, with their clothes still on. He trembles with unfettered wilderness; but they see it in each other, the propensity for beautiful violence. They had met eyes a dozen times across rooms and through halls and in the half-lit dark. They had met eyes and seduced each other all over again. What, after all, is to dance; if not to step around and around until one partner yields to the other?

“Do you want this one?” she murmurs, forming her words with a special flavour of bitter honey. She glances at him coyly; and presses her palm into his. It’s his pin, his number; and if he wanted to, he could wear his own face and watch the crowds pale in the wake of that dangerous, enticing sneer. “Or;” and she gives his tie a soft little tug, not enough to cause discomfort; but enough for him to feel her grasp, “do you want mine?” 

[reginaserpentes-blog]

veelablck:

Legs were pushed out of her robe as she made her way down the steps with fingers holding back dark curls. The wind caused each strand to dance wildly around her face, which made looking up to be almost impossible to do. The trail of boys behind her was an accessory that she wore each day as words from another caught her off guard. The terminology of  ‘ baby ’ being thrown towards her with such ease that she expected it to come from someone she cared for, but her lips curled down into a low frown when Evadne was linked to be the source.

“ I need no such thing from you, Evadne. ” Walburga was already reaching towards the small bag that was thrown over her shoulder, hand rustling through the mess before pulling out her own. “ Cygnus made sure to get me one earlier. He always looks out for me, ” she spoke softly as the crowd around them grew as their own admirers met as one. “ Try to not break a leg today. It would be awful to see such beauty broken. ”

It’s juvenile, really, the deep-seated despise she has for Walburga Black; but as with all things juvenile, the stinging hatred never has nor ever will fade. As Evadne witnesses none but the Black snake (not to be mistaken as a compliment) rise towards where she perches, her mouth automatically adjusts into a cruel twist. Every indulgent smile she affords Cygnus she withholds from Walburga. Every crooned promise for the brother is a sharp rebuke for the sister. It’s been this way for as long as she can remember, and if animosity is a venom, then all it had done since its conception was spread. 

“Oh?” It’s a casual, dismissive sort of exclamation. Evadne’s eyebrows raise in sync with the movement of Walburga’s hand. She peers down, with uncharacteristic displeasure, at Cygnus’ visage, magicked onto a pin; preserved in infamy. “Hmm,” she hums vaguely, narrow eyed. Her gaze lingers for a moment more before it sharply lifts. “How typical. Do you support the Slytherin quidditch team at all, or is it just your dreamboat little brother?” She scoffs unkindly. “Oh, and drop the pretensions, babydoll. I’m playing offense today. No fight left unpicked.”  

[reginaserpentes-blog]

marvolous:

❛ evadne.

date: 14 september, 1944 

location: library

status: closed with @reginaserpentes

The library has always been a refuge. More than merely a place to be, where comforts abound and silence protects, it has been made as a home within a home. The room as a whole commands respect, awe, and an awareness of self. There is no idle chatter or running feet; hands never fall so carelessly upon books and bricks here. Every person enters with purpose, or something similar enough —— an aim, if not direction. The library, a sanctuary bearing vast knowledge and thereby immeasurable power, is not a place of frivolous and superficial things.

Tom can and often does sit, unstirring and with heavy-lidded eyes, for hours on end. A first-year passionate affair with devouring all the information he could find bloomed into something far more regular and far more consuming. Behind a barrier of dusty books left unread for centuries, he does his true learning. Assignments are blown through in scarcely an hour’s time; it is theory and history than eats whole his waking hours. When not occupied with associates and their too-often draining company, he can be found here —— with some diligent searching —— in a secluded corner filled with dim light and the incessant scratching of a quill.

Sometimes they come to him. He knows their footsteps with a razor thin margin of error. Some, the heavy swagger or the irreverent strut, are easy to identify. Others blur together, made similar by pace and mood. He has learned to anticipate them and to prepare accordingly. They all expected a different face; in a matter of seconds, he tailors his very existence for them.

Evadne’s walk, in his presence if nowhere else, is usually accompanied by her voice.

The chair across from him was pulled out before he bothered to look up. His subsequent sigh was quiet, and his expression darkened then cleared before he met her eyes. She would speak first; already days into the term, but he had yet to breathe a single word to her. It rapidly became a game of sorts —— or, alternatively, a test of patience.

He’s here, and she’s pleased.

She’s so pleased that her wolf heart, so hard to stir, so hard to draw out; beats a little faster, a little more incessantly. And as she sweeps from the shadows and into the range of candlelight, she cannot help but smile. Who else could illicit such a response from Evadne Carrow with nothing but a sigh? Who else could remain so disinterested yet intensely interesting? Who else, who else than the master himself? And here he is, wrapped in his mysteries and striking intellect, looking up at her with expectation and boredom alike. It’s a form of poison, but doesn’t every addicting substance have a warning label of impending death? The flickering light casts ghastly shadows, but as she pulls a chair back and sits across from him, her attention laps hungrily at only what is before her. 

Other men would crawl for her, other boys would fall on their knees and press a dagger through their chests if only to profess their love -- but when it comes to Tom Riddle, Evadne is the one with her gaze turnt towards the darkening skies, the crucified seraph looking desperately towards her maker. He had made all of them, hadn’t he? In some convoluted, ironic way, he had twisted them and guided them and demanded from them an excellence so black that it had coloured their very souls. Hers is rotting sickly, and its corrosive is a boy dressed in shades of dark, one finger paused on the edge of a page. Waiting. Always, waiting. 

“Hello Tom,” she purrs at once, hands folded on the surface of the table. There is a signet ring on her left, a silver snake wrapping about her third finger like a brand on the right. She tries to magnetize, but already there’s the sensation that he’s slipping from her.

“I’ve been looking for you for quite some time, now. You’re a very hard boy to track down.” But still there is silence. She feels lost, but also alive. She starts again. Blissful yet anxious, confident yet aimless. “It’s a bit early in the year to be so withdrawn, don’t you think? The novelty of having you with us again hasn’t worn off yet.” Would it ever? She blinks, dash lashes fanning out. When she tilts her chin, there is something sharper there. “We’re hungry,” she says, though there is allegory there. We’re hungry, she says. but what she really means is this: I’m hungry. Feed me. 

[reginaserpentes-blog]

khalilahshafiq:

Khalilah felt the excitement of the first quidditch match bubble inside her, joy brimming to the top and a true smile wavered on her features, a fine staple as she walked through crowded halls. There had been many whispers and bets made against who would win, the showdown that would set the course for the rest of the season, and this showed if the Slytherins were truly the team to beat. Of course they could hiss all they want, Kitty would tell Olive, they would be no match for the wits and plays the convocation of eagles would rain down on the pitch. 

It was not known that she despised the Gryffindor team, made up of mainly the Aviators and a select few of others that seemed too unimportant. She would be rooting for the Slytherins come the day of the match, Cygnus Black always made her - a secret shared between the two. She would cheer for the snakes that coiled around freshly waxed brooms, devilish grins and a fight that ruffled the likes of others - they would play dirty, Kitty assumed as they have in the past. Their ambitions flew as high as Icarus, but it was no question that Kitty’s was soaring just as much, ambitions to feed the nations, and greed that left a taste in her mouth for only wanting more. 

Kitty entered the courtyard, heels clicking against the stone steps as her chin kept alleviated, as she walked she held an air of wealth, a pureblood heiress would let it be known. But with the body of someone else blocks her path, Khalilah pauses her stride, and it takes merely a split second for her to see the smile of Evadne Carrow. Had it been fake or genuine? Well in the face of Khalilah Shafiq there was no doubt it held an aura of deceit, the answer was in her eyes. And the smile that Kitty once had, vanished on sighting the girl opposite her. 

“Evadne,” Kitty coos, offering a smile as forced, something she learned from the many pureblood society events, her mother always whispering to play nice, but did Kitty always play nice? “How painful it would be to outwardly show my support, don’t you think?” 

And here comes Kitty Shafiq, head held high and dark-rimmed eyes flashing. Evadne immediately feels a tight little spring coiling in the pit of her stomach. Really, the two weren’t so different -- until they were. Beyond their beauty and their love for dramatic entrances, Evadne and Khalilah could very rarely be lumped in one basket, let alone compared in terms of anything but vapid impression; and of this Evadne is proud. There was ambition, and there was ambition. It was a dirty word to some; but everyone who truly scorned it was inevitably doomed to fail. Much like Kitty, who is always clipping about in her delicate heels, yet pitifully empty of true prowess. Would she have the propensity for ruthless sabotage? Would she ever be able to step down from her false heights and use a shoe as a murder weapon? Resoundingly, no. Not like a Carrow would. 

So they stand here, two pureblood girls with two false smiles. A Slytherin wouldn’t be caught dead making nice with a member of the Resistance: but then again, Kitty wasn’t really a member of it, was she? Like a stray butterfly, she had seen the others gathered about the crown of a bloom, and eagerly gone to lap up the nectar too. Shame. Venus flytraps were always so ugly. “Kitty,” Evadne coos in response, sharp mouth curving upwards, though it only serves to make her look more sinister. She almost hopes that Cygnus will appear any moment and come sweep her away to class, if only to see the look of outrage on poor Shafiq’s face. The other girl may have been an eagle, but envy was always tinged green. “Painful? And here I was, thinking you always wanted to be on the winning side. You don’t want people to associate you with the losers, do you?”

“Anyways,” she continues with a toss of her head. Right on time, the pin on her own robes flashes Grand-stand champions!!! in a striking shade of silver. An illustrated snake hisses, slithering casually about the circular frame, before giving way to a one-by-one list of the roster. Lestrange. Mulciber. Nott. Dolohov. Carrow. “I think that you’ll like the ones we have this year.” Opening her palm, Evadne smugly holds her hand out to reveal its contents. A pin, completely dark. But after a brief moment, it morphs into a familiar and beloved sight. Cygnus Black, dressed for quidditch, looking handsomely out into the world. He winks conspiratorially as the image lingers for a prolonged moment; before #7 replaces his portrait, followed by the Slytherin crest of arms.

“The cat’s meow, aren’t they?” She’s smirking. To reiterate, right about now would be a perfect moment for the boy himself to appear in all his casual glory. Ah well. Some things were strictly for the girls to handle. “I have one of me, too. If you wanted that one instead.” 

[reginaserpentes-blog]

DATE: 11 September 1944

LOCATION: Courtyards

STATUS: Open 

She’s been on the team for four years now; but it never fades, the buzz of anticipation that precedes the first match of the year. Red ties and verdant cloaks, broomsticks engraved in gold and new leather gloves, all those jealous, cutting stares and not-so-empty threats -- see you on the pitch, bitch. But then again, the Gryffindors, with their nobility and soft leadership, couldn’t carry through with their talk if they tried. Lions with big maws but tight muzzles, large paws but no claws. Roar all you want. This year’s Slytherin roster was a crowd favourite -- and they were playing for keeps. Victory is an intoxicating thing, and if her father was out chasing it with black cloaks and whipping winds, then she would too. 

Potions is about to start, but the courtyards are still packed, little groups congregating about one another, already donning their colours and support. She has her own legion of admirers, and they proudly wear the brand of the snake as they flutter about her, all Chaser again, Eva? and I heard Gryffindor doesn’t have a Seeker yet, the fools. But her gaze is fixated upon an approaching figure as they ascend the steps towards the stone parapet where she’s perched. She hops off the ledge, and with one hand closed in a fist near her side, blocks their path. “Hey baby,” she says in greeting. Whether it’s mocking or genuine remains indecisive. Then, her own flashing boldly in the morning sunlight -- “Do you want a pin?”

[jennlawrnce2-deactivated2015091]

“Or perhaps in Slytherin, you’ll make your real friends. Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends.”

[aly-naith]

posters: House Slytherin

“Or perhaps in Slytherin, You’ll make your real friends, Those cunning folk use any means, To achieve their ends.”

ravenclaw | hufflepuff | gryffindor

[reginaserpentes-blog]

charles-alexander-potter:

His stomach plummeted. It was so unlike him to be bold with his words, especially in the company of someone like Evadne, and he knew as soon as the words left his mouth that he’d made a mistake. It was all speculation - he hadn’t actually seen anything that night, holding his own glass of dark red wine and squinting into the shadows - and as such he wasn’t going to declare it true. The scholar in him wouldn’t allow it. However, Declan’s mannerisms spoke volumes, and Evadne’s reaction did nothing to quench the unease rising like vomit in Charles’ stomach. She inched closer, and a desperate backpedal knocked at the closed door of his lips.There was still time, he thought - time to cover his tracks, to draw the Slytherin’s gaze away from the image he’d just produced. He knew that, despite what she said, neither of them wanted him to elaborate, so he stayed quiet, lips drawn into a tight, thin line. The distance between them grew shorter without warning, and he had to steel himself from stepping back; her hands reached for his throat, the fingers of his left hand twitched instinctively… 

The difference in intent between her mouth and her hands was staggering - intriguing - and Charles was thoroughly confused. It was a rare thing for him to feel, and his discomfort was palpable. Still, something rooted him to the spot; Evadne’s fingers fussing about his collar made him bristle, his stomach clenched, but he kept himself from backing away. That was what she would expect him to do, and why not surprise her a second time? Narrowed brown eyes searched her face, his upper lip curled into a scowl. Your dead, she said. The casket. Try as he might, Charles couldn’t push the thought from his head. His mind’s eye was always much too clear, much too imaginative, and the image of a polished mahogany casket sinking into the earth was almost too much for him to bear. 

“Get off.”

Roughly, he wrenched himself out of Evadne’s reach, smoothing down his own robes in an attempt to rid himself of her. ‘That sort of thing might work on Declan,’ he thought as he turned away, ‘but it won’t work on me.’

She’s gotten under his skin, and it’s almost enticing, to see how thin it is. Like a paper screen, like a butterfly’s wing caught on the snag of a wayward rose -- like promises and futile revolutions, like their Resistance in the face of Tom Riddle’s all-conquering darkness. 

Yes. She does pity him; she pities him like a sleek grey cat pities a fallen bird -- momentarily, insincerely, entirely opportunistic in the flashes of shallow sympathy. There was no merit in a boy like Charles Potter: even if he had chosen the right path to walk -- the path now paved with blood and empire makers and a silver-haired wizard bellowing in the snow -- what could he have offered them? They were a glorious syndicate of criminal grace, and all she can see in the boy before her is restraint, a restraint so prominent that he nearly shakes with it, shakes with the doe-eyed, accusatory way his eyes peer down at her fingers through the thick looking glass of his spectacles. He reminds her of a rabbit, not crying out until near death; soft and enduring until the kettle is burning, until it’s screaming. 

Get off; he says, and as he tears himself from her, her mouth parts, half incredulity, half delight.

Despite all his paix et douceur, he’s redeemed himself in her gaze today; even marginally. Evadne Carrow looked at the world with a judgement-tinged lens, and when it came to the scholar of Gryffindor house, well -- she had never been kind in her sharp-tongued epithets. 

Get off; he says, and as he turns away, her mouth turns up in a smirk, red lips poised and fangs dripping with the hunt. With a toss of her head, she demands his attention for a moment longer. How could it possibly be denied, when she throws her words out in a sandpaper drawl, a steel-edged flutter? “No, Charlieboy.” And she doesn’t make to leave. Instead, her eyes, dark and glinting, slam into his. Unrelenting. Predatory. “Get in.” 

And so the she-wolf watches the rabbit flee. But in her mouth, she bears a tuft of his fur. A tail, taken like a token of victory, hung up on the wall like a memento of almost dangerous and entirely cowardly.

~ FIN 

[reginaserpentes-blog]

declanprewett:

Lion boy. Of everything she hurls his way, this abrades against his cheek, a bruise and a welt. It isn’t shocking, per se, the coldness with which she addresses his birthright, his domicile, and the swiftness with which she ties him to it. Gryffindor, Prewett. Prewett, Gryffindor. Of course. Isn’t it what has always been done? In the end, Declan is nothing but a mascot, to her as he is to everyone - head of the pride, head of the Resistance, fire-eyed thing of the stars, the radiant emblem of justice that will save them all. The handsome daydream. Declan will carry this burden without resentment, but it is hard, sometimes, to feel as if he is nothing but vapid grandeur and a fantasy of the masses. 

“You’re incorrigible,” Declan snaps, words like teeth, agitated and uncomfortable. She speaks like Avery from an afternoon eons ago, spitting and hissing at the mere idea of help, of Declan having a shred of humanity that he is willing to extend to a snake. It is infuriating and it is unbelievable, how foreign kindness is to these dark, prideful creatures. “Not you, too - the whole lot of you are like stubborn primary children, fucking Merlin.” He draws back further from her, just barely bristling. He doesn’t deny it - that they would kill each other - though Declan does not believe it, not truly. There is little affection in his heart for Carrow, but there is no true ill will. Devastation does not come naturally to boys beneath the sun.

And here she is, speaking so candidly of her demise, so intertwined with her legacies and crowns, so taken with her inglory, that the death of it seldom moves her. How sad, Declan finds himself thinking. How cold, to feel death so intimately, to wear it like tassels upon the shoulders, to know it as men know war.

“Get over yourself, Carrow,” Declan retorts abruptly. “Normal people don’t want to - to hit you while you’re down. We don’t all live in Riddle’s medieval kingdom. Some of us - ” And he pauses here, never able to stay frozen for too long, never able to dance a whole dance without adjusting the mask. He looks upon Carrow, now, and forcibly pinches his mouth into a scowl. “Some of us left. We’re not all out to get you, despite what you’ve been trained to believe.”

Declan reaches for Evadne’s wand, where the Lumos is beginning to fade. "Well, you still have yours, don’t you?“ Declan gestures, and isn’t it ridiculous, that the thought of her Apparating without him doesn’t occur to him until now? That he is the only one in true danger? That even when it is with red-lipped, red-rosed Evadne, whose eyes cut like diamonds, whose mind is marble, silk, thorn, indigo -

That even then, his first thought had been, we. He and the vipress, together.

Don’t call me baby, he wants to whisper.

Not you, too. 

At this, she scoffs. Watching Declan pace, watching him begin to lose some of that honey-smeared composure and fray at the edges - this is what she has been waiting for. This is what they have been holding back. It gives her a vicious pleasure, to see his nobility erode; to uncover that sliver of despise that can be hidden by no sense of moral goodness. She smiles when she hears him curse. This is the game that she knows well. Sharp tongues and a pair of silver spurs kicked into her flank -- pain and conquest, risk and reward. He’s finally beginning to stray from the rules, and she’s not above goading him to make his moves and swallow her pieces -- come quickly, soldier; come recklessly; come with war-song and wayward abandon.  

“What, Prewett, did you think that a single night of lackluster shagging was enough to turn my loyalties?” Her voice is cutting - a bitter, teasing inflection. “Don’t be so daft.” The Carrows were feared for a reason, and perhaps she has inherited some of the intimidation of her father; or perhaps she has developed her own shade of poison in these years of spoiled, rotten cultivation. “Do you know how many boys like you I’ve fucked and forgotten? You’re a drop in the ocean, baby. I can hardly feel your weight.” She’s cooing like a black dove with bloody wings. Isn’t this the Achilles heel of all men? Isn’t this the pinnacle of their adolescent pride? Everything in life was about power; other than sex. Sex was power. And Declan Prewett is proud -- he can deny hunger for ambition, he can scorn fame and spite glory -- but pride? Pride is in his bones, in his step, in the very way he looks at her now, all self-righteous dignity and elevated honour. She watches for his reaction; eyes half-hooded, wrist still pressed against her chest like she’s making a pledge, a promise. She’s certain that she has struck a chord; because if she, soiled Madonna and Jezebel incarnate, had felt the soft-sheened glimmer of that night --- 

                                                            and the thought lingers. 

“I don’t abandon my own. Certainly not for some...” and Evadne surveys him, furiously trying to pin him down in words that he can understand and she can swallow. “Foolish, deluded vigilante.” It isn’t nearly what she wanted to say, but the way she spits it, it could be dirty, it could be despicable. Somehow, the idea of a villain sits better with her than that of a hero. Villains had no rules to abound by, villains could explore the vast deep and come up reborn - villains became emperors and conquerors, killers and kings. Heroes were only remembered after they were dead. Heroes were martyrs, and it was only with their blood that their stories were written. And though Prewett has bled for his cause and may bleed again; she cannot help but see what lingers from ages past. Hadn’t they once played in the gardens together, shirtsleeves and sun-kissed brows; his mother’s dahlias, her father’s premonitions? The breeze of summer is a distant memory. Where they stand, no wind passes. 

“Normal,” she echoes softly, and it feels so unfamiliar on her tongue, this epithet for the mundane. Her brows knit together, genuinely confused by this characterization which he pins upon himself. “You’re not normal.” She’s chiding, accusatory, mouth twisting like a blooming rose; but it’s insistent, earnest, even. When she believes, it’s with every vestige of power she can muster; and this -- this is the pillar of her faith which has endured war and hatred and difference, this is why she still thinks she can save him. “Fundamentally, you’re like us. Beneath all your mistakes and delusions, you’re extraordinary too.” And Evadne’s eyes light up with it, the word, the vision, the dream. “I said it this morning.” But it feels like lifetimes ago; it feels like a ship that has sailed far, far away. The sea is going to swallow it from the starboard down, and then it would swallow them too. “You were born for so much more than...” and she gestures with her wand, dimly fading, in his general vicinity, “this.” Heroes could still become villains --- if they tore their capes and let their terrible senses of justice fall from them like clay from a blind man’s eyes, then they too had the propensity for greatness. Evadne wants to make Declan see. Silence reaches for them, it wants to fill the darkness. But she still has things to say; she’ll always have things to say. 

Instead, the present is their welcome distraction.

Well, you still have yours, don’t you?

“I do,” she responds pettily; but she’s simultaneously retracting her wand arm quickly out of his reach. Merlin damn her the day she willingly hands her darling length of wood to some grubby fingered enemy; even if this one had been built in the image of the Grecian deities. Lumos sputters uncertainly again, and in any other circumstance, she would be furious, to be so weak. Instead, she’s almost glad of it, a smug little purr making its way onto her mouth. “But I’m tired. You’d better find your wand before the lights go out.” And she’s cooing, a glinting chesire smile floating in the descending black. “If you can’t stand me in the day, you’ll despise me even more in the dark.”

[reginaserpentes-blog]

DATE : Summer 1944  LOCATION : Malfoy Manor TIME : 11:17 pm  STATUS : Closed @abraxasmlfoy​ 

                   ‘ Love does not make me gentle or kind.’ 

They were gods peering over the edge of the world, and beneath the cover of the clouds, a golden scion and silver debutante have been tied together by a red thread, drawn towards a holy matrimony.

The champagne from the ceremony still lingers in Evadne’s veins as she glides through the halls of Malfoy Manor, fingertips brushing irreverently across mahogany banisters, marble surfaces, the gilt frames of paintings. There has always been something glorious to this estate; something divine in its very foundation, and on nights like these, when its filled with the sacred pure and exquisite elite, it becomes a vessel of the holy unknown. Like some numinous, glowing thing in a sea of black; it pulses with absolution. It tempts and captures and swallows whole. And while the rest of her congregation rustles and preens and admires one another on the wide balconies and sweeping English gardens; she’s come to pay her respects to a manor which, in her opinion, exemplifies every standard which she has come to revere as deeply as a sycophant reveres the laws of her god. 

White peacocks and leather armchairs; marble pillars and the bone-chilling cold of great expectation. Crystal decanters and roaring fireplaces; sleek grey hounds and cultivated young men playing to win. 

She’s dressed in a satin gown, an opalescent silver which plunges at the neck and exposes the sharp slope of her shoulders; the smooth length of a leg as it flashes with every step. Even now, in one hand she still holds what remains of her flute; a dainty, shallow glass which awns wide and takes well to the way the shadows play beneath the flickering chandeliers. Lingering in the east wing of the estate, meeting eyes with the moving portraits of Malfoy patriarchs generations upon generations in succession, Evadne all at once feels overshadowed by greatness, and a peculiar sense of being watched. A living gaze, not one of the feeble, ghostly spectres of the dead. 

“You Malfoys all look precisely the same,” she observes coyly, turning her head to look over her shoulder at the approaching heir and celebrated boy of the hour. His oxfords click sharply against the black floors, though not as sharply as her heels. Deities don’t walk without fanfare, and they too will not arrive in silence. “White hair, blue eyes -- that peculiar little tip of the chin; you know the one -- mhm, you’re doing it now.” As Abraxas comes to a stop besides her, she continues, one hand gesturing languidly midair as the other supports her champagne with casual elegance. 

“Promise me one thing, Abraxas, baby -- “ her tongue is loose and she feels a strange surge of fondness for him, Malfoy. “Have your portrait done now, while you’re still unique and impressionable.” It’s all in jest, but she does mean it too. He was a handsome boy; and while beauty gives way to decorum, it can never be regained in such pure form. What she doesn’t mention right away is the betrothal, though it certainly hangs above them, waiting to be acknowledged. And after a moment of pause, acknowledge it she does. Underhandedly, as is often Evadne Carrow’s shade of acclamation. 

“Well. How do you feel? You and your lover will have the same initials, now.” Lover. She looks at him, and can hardly imagine him loving anything but politics and well tailored robes. “Ariadne will do well. I’m excited for you.” Truth, truth, lie. 

[reginaserpentes-blog]

electralestrange:

Her robes are in tatters around her like shards of a statue that’s been torn from the height of its good graces, but her jaw holds firm and she does not shake. There’s a roar in the distance that lingers with a sharp ringing in her ears, and as she sits against a damp wall with her legs crossed and her throat arched, fresh memories start to blur at the edges of her vision. She sees a hundred bodies running and the foundation of Hogwarts Castle slowly crumbling around them all, and her fingers itch with the remembrance of her urge to push someone out of the storm’s eye and into the wrath of its gale-force winds. Bombs fall and fire eats away at the shelter of the school, and all that she can feel is not fear, but a jealous rage. She wants to think of herself in a similar way, wreaking havoc and scarring minds — and it’s natural for a young woman to be envious, is it not? Burn the silk gowns and step on all of the pearls. She’ll eat theidr fragments and spit them in your face.

( She’s a girl built from the rotten wood of a diseased forest. She swallows herself in flames that are meant to cleanse her plague, but instead she wields them as weapons and takes command. She suffocates on the ash of her burnt victims, but it causes her no harm. Her smile is twisted and her teeth are blackened, but they’re still inviting. Step a little closer. )

Evadne Carrow is the first of the snakes to approach Electra after she makes her way into their crowded holding cell — and the story of the two women has always been similar to many a fairy tale. One’s a princess pushed from her pedestal and the other’s a dragon that rampages kingdoms far and wide. The knight that stole Evadne’s heart managed to conquer the beast and took charge of its mighty fury, and now the maiden stands with the man and monster on the aspirations of building a new and unchallenged empire. Evadne weaves dead flowers into her braid and Electra unfurls her wings. ❝ Why do you stand so close to Tom? I’m the one who has sacrificed the most, ❞ the fairest of them whispers.

There will always be tension.

( ❝ You make yourself bleed for him, Evadne, and I gut his enemies until they run dry. Stop whining over a scar that you’ve dug with your own damn nails. ❞ )

Electra rolls her shoulders until they let loose a loud crack, looking up from her seated position and quirking one of her thinly arched eyebrows in response to the damsel’s remarks. ❝ It’s a shame that the house-elves weren’t ordered to come down here with us, ❞ she begins, letting out a yawn and leaning forward, her torso and knees bending as she lifts herself up off of the floor. ❝ I’d have something to play with, and you’d have them to wait on your every frightened whim. ❞ She’s standing now, and she closes the space between her and Evadne in a matter of quick steps. A calloused hand reaches out and strokes a soft lock of the Carrow heiress’ brown waves. ❝ I’m no servant, but I could pamper you. Why must you always trail after Tom and all of those ridiculous pure-blood boys? They’re no fun, and you seem so foolish and small beside them. ❞ 

She laughs, tugging on Evadne’s strands just harshly enough to pull her close to Electra’s waiting form. She exhales a hot breath that glides across the pale length of Evadne’s exposed neck, wrapping a greedy arm around her narrow waist — and even in a situation where she is forced to play the part of prey, Electra does not forget her predatory roots. 

❝ I’m a flavor you haven’t tasted yet, Evy. Come and spoil yourself on me. There’s got to be some fun that can be found in all of this tragedy, right? ❞

She has always despised Electra Lestrange.

Since their youth, they’ve been at odds. One was the vicious red mongrel snarling in the shadows, and the other was the little black mink hissing defiantly in return, refusing to swallow defeat, refusing to relinquish the realm of what was hers. Evadne Carrow was a Knight of Walpurgis, a dangerous, scarlet-tinged, fatal mix like all the rest of them -- but she was also fundamentally soft, fundamentally sleek, touched with a beauty that extended beyond terror; a grace that transcended all indecencies. 

While Lestrange had spent her childhood with blood smeared on her mouth and a hunting harpoon poised in her hand; Carrow had walked up and down the aisle of pureblood society, until she could blow a kiss, and watch the pews fall down in trembling awe. Power was not always brutal, victory was not always a frontal offense: true influence was a private, teetering thing. To win loyalty through fear was to command armies of strength. To seduce your soldiers and tether them by the strings of their hearts -- well. A man fights hard for what he fears; but he fights until the death for what he loves.

And so they stand all at once chasms and millimetres apart, staring each other in the eye like leviathans rising from the deep. Even now, as Electra turns abruptly towards her (cutting like a blunt knife between Evadne and her intended target of conversation), she feels a sharp surge of irritation and judging acerbity rise in her throat. Her wrist throbs, yet there is the distinct desire to hit something. Someone. Instead, she presses her mouth into a hard line and steels for impact. 

“My frightened whim?” Evadne bristles at the very implication. She laughs, but it’s abrupt and false. “Oh, cool the fuck down, dolly.” Very few of her peers are foolish enough to still treat her like some vapid sycophant; but Electra has the gall and the ammunition. Tom Riddle’s lieutenant, sneering in triumph over his devoted worshiper. “You can hardly fathom what I’ve endured tonight. Don’t act like I was the one flirting fruitlessly with Walburga in a pit while the rest of the world collapsed.” She doesn’t move when the other girl extends a sharp hand toward her face, but her eyes flick to it distrustfully nonetheless. 

Why must you always trail after Tom and all of those ridiculous pure-blood boys?  

And then immediately afterwards, the words of damnation -- foolish. Small. Evadne wishes desperately for Cygnus, for Tom, for anyone to deliver her; to save her from her own fury, rising like a tide in her chest. One eyebrow raises of its own accord. “Mhm.” Then, before her silence can be mistaken for complacency: “Low blow, bitch.” And she sees a vision: a laughing dog lapping proudly at its master’s feet as the mink is strung up and crucified, loyal to the bitter end. Fruitless even in its death, made only into a fur pelt to be draped about the master’s cold, sharp shoulders. It’s a vision that has tormented her for years now; yet it never fades from her, it never ceases to send an anxious acrimony through her veins. 

She’s pulled in close, until her soft curves press stubbornly against the sharp angles and thin hips of their black-haired executioner. And there they stand, one leering ever closing, the other drawing back in uncharacteristic discomfort. A flash of distaste makes its way very obviously across Evadne’s features: she has been manhandled a thousand times -- by suitors, by princes, by peasants who don’t know their place. But nothing before can compare with the overwhelming urge to distance herself that rises now like bile in her throat. Her wrist is forgotten, the pain of injury eclipsed largely by the suffering of circumstance. “Oh, but baby,” she hisses at last; eyes narrowing, red-painted mouth still poised for one last battle. They could kiss, if they wanted to. Too bad she’d rather die. “I don’t eat shit.” 

[reginaserpentes-blog]

declanprewett:

He knows from the first words: a hissed curse, a weak spell - and he feels he has known for years already when she finally addresses him, baby wrapped like a ribbon around the great and terrible gift of her presence. God, he knows. And how could he not? He would recognize Carrow across ballrooms, across summers, stripped to nothing but rags or raised to queenship - the overwhelming being of her is forever steadfast. He turns fully to regard her, lips parted and eyes wide, as bewildered as he is unmoved. Shouldn’t he have expected this? They are refracting magnets, molten Prewett and thieving Carrow, spinning worlds whose axes tilt just so they may meet every orbit - pulled to one another over and over, in streets and alleyways, in dreams and memories.

Carrow holds her illuminated wand strangely, and it is this observation that jarrs him from his reservations, her gilded remarks sliding off of him with ease as he silently makes his way back to her, uncertainty pushed beneath a naked, pressing concern Declan will never admit to come morning. “And this time it wasn’t me made into a doormat,” he remarks unsmilingly, stiffly, only to kneel beside her and take her wrist into his hands all the same, finding he cannot muster sufficient contempt for her irredeeming sharpness. He studies her injury with great concentration, and is distantly relieved to find it does not appear severe. “Bruised, maybe twisted,” he mutters, nearly to himself, and meticulously uncurls each of her fingers to test for a reaction, a specific tendon.

For a moment, he forgets whose hand he holds in his own - she is another injured quidditch teammate at halftime, she is Leo after an ill-advised and terribly satisfying fistfight, she is Bellavie in the hospital wing, laughing, enduring, endlessly generous -

- and abruptly, the moment ends.

Declan blinks, and recedes immediately as their surrounding chaos returns to him in jagged fragments. It is not so much of a recoiling as it is a cautious sliding, a weary sinking. He lays her wrist back at her side, gentle and hasty, and after a moment of hesitation, flicks his gaze up to meet hers. “Don’t be so proud,” is all he able to say, and he delivers it as plainly as he can - it is dusted with irritation, but empty of condescension, of cruelty. He feels complicated inside - some haphazard concoction of rue, of anxiety, of indignation, of bitterness. And yet, of all things, he is certain of one truth: He would not stand to see Evadne harmed.

This is dangerous, however, and as he holds her eyes with his own, unwilling to break first (to leave first, to let go first), he knows this, above Bordeaux or bedsheets, will be a secret to carry with him to the grave. His greatest, his darkest, his heaviest.

It must be - for this, just this, is what determines victory in warfare.

He kneels besides her like a knight of broken crusades, all humble decorum and red swashes of torn fabric -- but she receives him coldly despite it, she receives him with a flinch and a sharp inhale of breath. 

They’ve come so close to this a thousand times. They’ve passed each other in the illuminated halls and felt their lungs constrict, they’ve met eyes and exchanged biting words and wished ill upon each other on the quidditch field, the dueling mats, the steps of Hogsmeade. But it all came down to this: the infinitesimal approach towards the forbidden, the enormous restraint of holding back, the unconquerable weight lain across their bare shoulders. It was like a noose tied about their neck, a black-clad executioner waiting for them to step from the precipice and succumb to the deep unknown.  

Touch me. 

If he senses it, the vastness of the moment, he doesn’t allow it to dissuade him. When the snake coils, injured; the lion nonetheless takes her up in his mouth. She is so thrown by the circumstance and shocked by the moment that she doesn’t strike, merely falls limp, letting him fuss, letting him press the pads of his fingers against her palm, against the tendons and veins of her hands, her wrist. They’ve spent so much time and effort in the quest to avoid contact; but with a crash and a bellow of trumpets, it happens anyways. Again, and again. And inevitably, again. There’s dirt on his cheek. For a fleeting, short-lived moment, her dark eyes linger upon the smear of it, and she almost has the mind to lift her free hand and wipe it away.

But then he bends her ring finger and she feels a sharp jot of pain travel down the length of her arm. Instinctively, Evadne snatches her wrist back from him, pressing it protectively against her chest instead, and just as instinctively, her gaze focuses into something poignant and damning, a dirty narrowing of her eyes, a silent accusation. The snake convulses in the lion’s jaw; and he drops her, but not without leaving a scrape.  

Prewett draws away, but as he does, she catches his quiet remark. It’s like he’s speaking to a child, and the rush of indignant pride immediately comes to prove his point, as if her very nature cannot bear to be chastised. Don’t be so proud, he says to her. But in her eighteen years, all she has heard, all she has known, is this: Be prouder. 

“Don’t be so noble,” is her immediate retort, with a stubborn raise of her chin (but why was it that she always felt the need to be taller, more powerful, more foreboding, when it came to speaking with Declan Prewett?). Her lips, painted red for a night of frivolity, shine equally well in the midst of terror. To smile in the face of danger is to take from it its prowess. Of course she doesn’t mean it, but if she loses her propensity for masks and deception, then what else was there to clothe her when she was weak? 

“We would have killed each other eventually. It’s inevitable. You should have just let fate have its go.” She takes on a matter-of-fact, melancholy sort of tone. But there’s amusement there too. There was always a hint of amusement in the centre of every terrible, despicable thought. “I’m not one of your ugly little sheep, darling; I don’t need you to leap to my rescue. Besides. You’ve lost your crook in the rubble. We’re both lost, now.” 

Don’t be so proud? She wants to laugh. She would be proud, she would be arrogant and heartless and brutal, like a wolf killing in the dark, like a ship navigating black waters. And she would make death proud to take her, when it finally came with its scythes and shadows and unending cold. 

“Let’s not pretend to be better than we are, lion boy.” She looks up at him, her lashes fanning out and her eyes reflecting the light of her wand. Golden, gold, decaying. They are sixteen and pressed against each other on silk sheets, they are seventeen and frozen in shame, they are eighteen and there’s something glimmering faintly at the end of the tunnel. 

“But really.” All hail the teenage girl, with her pursed lips and grand schemes. She’s still there, beneath the regalia and crowning, beneath the glory and carnage. “Haven’t we progressed beyond all this surface shit? Let’s go deeper, baby. Hit me while I’m down.” 

[girlaltar-a-blog]

anne carson sentence starters.

quotes are all taken from various poems and essays by the queen of aesthetes, anne carson. feel free to change pronouns/add things/etc if needed.

‘ you are not a god. ’

‘ we begin in the dark and birth is the death of us. ’

‘ now you’ve crowned yourself one final perfect time. ’

‘ [ name ] was a monster. everything about him was red. ’

‘ what are we made of but hunger and rage? ’

‘ i finally decided that understanding isn’t what grief is about. ’

‘ honey is the sleep of the just. ’

‘ it is perilous to live past the end of your myth. ’

‘ you remember too much. ’

‘ when i desire you a part of me is gone. ’

‘ humans in love are terrible. ’

‘ under the seams runs the pain. ’

‘ men know almost nothing about desire. ’

‘ sex is a substitute, like money or language. ’

‘ what is the holiness of conversation? ’

‘ —you burn me. ’

‘ i ask this one thing: let me go mad in my own way. ’

‘ sometimes i just want to stop seeing. ’

‘ we’re all mortal, you know. ’

‘ i am the shape you made me. filth teaches filth. ’

‘ why does tragedy exist? ’

‘ you’re a beauty. ’

‘ madness and witchery are conditions commonly associated with the female voice. ’

‘ it made me merciless. ’

‘ desire is no light thing. ’

‘ i do not exist. there is nothing left. ’

‘ gods are stubborn. so am i. ’

‘ we had been seduced into thinking that we were immortal. ’

‘ i am someone who did not die when i should have died. ’

‘ why are you so in love with things unbearable? ’

‘ everything can collapse. ’

‘ someone will remember us. even in another time. ’

‘ my mind is burning. ’

‘ each night, about this time, he puts on sadness like a garment and goes on writing. ’

‘ love does not make me gentle or kind. ’

‘ i can give you reasons not do die. ’

‘ passivity is killing her. ’

‘ they are victims of love, many of them. ’

‘ he is a young god. ’

‘ you touch my soul, you pain my mind. ’

‘ it’s something of a cliché to say that we all think we’re monsters. ’

‘ i fear your sorrows make your tongue grow wild. ’

‘ it’s what they call ‘ecstasy’. ’

‘ a man who can’t die is no tragic hero. ’ 

‘ i want everything. ’

‘ it was like a beautiful dance where your partner turns and stabs you to death. ’

‘ to survive you need an edge. ’

‘ girls are cruelest to themselves. ’

‘ we are dust. ’

bonus! further quotations from award-winning poet and author anne carson:

‘ i am a philosopher of sandwiches. ’

‘ pilgrims were people glad to take off their clothing, which was on fire. ’

‘ english is a bitch. ’

‘ i wish i were two dogs. then i could play with me. ’

[reginaserpentes-blog]

charles-alexander-potter:

As much as he read and wrote and dealt with words in one form or another, Charles was not gifted in waging war with them. Really, waging war at all wasn’t a strong suit of his, but dueling with a wand seemed to come easier than dueling with his tongue. He was horrifically unfit to battle Evadne, and he knew it; but, that stubborn, steady lion inside him shook its mane and rose to its feet, emitting a great growl at the Slytherin’s parry. It was a low blow, but definitely not one he hadn’t heard before. It must have been common knowledge among the Slytherins - particularly the Knights - that Bellavie was a sensitive subject. Then again, he imagined it wasn’t that hard to figure out, what with how notoriously (and, to Bellavie, exhaustingly) protective he, Declan, and Leo were of her. It was a predictable insult, but judging by the way he bristled and the way he gnawed on the inside of his cheek, it was one Charles couldn’t let go.     

‘Of course she could beat you,’ he wanted to say, but the words came to a sliding halt at the tip of his tongue. He had every faith in Bellavie’s magical abilities, but he’d also seen Evadne duel and knew better than to take the bait. With his luck he’d end up inadvertently signing Bellavie up for a nighttime, no-holds-barred duel, so he kept his mouth shut, a muscle working furiously in his jaw. But, he could only hold out for so long…

“Enough.”

The lion in his chest roared, and Charles faced Evadne with fierce intensity. If she fancied herself killing his best friend, then he was going to have something to say about it; however, as per usual, he came up empty. 

That is, until she mentioned Declan. 

He almost laughed. Almost. 

“That’d suit you, wouldn’t it?”

So easy to rile up, so easy to disarm. 

She had always perceived Charles Potter to be a weakling, the intellectual rioter struggling to keep his books from being torn on the battlefield as his mates raised their banners and made their war cries. He was not built for the same fate as the rest of them. Knocking knees, thick-framed glasses, a face soft and boyish, not at all intimidating. He may have been a lion (by some laughable standard), but if Gryffindor house was a pride, then he was their runt. It’s pitiful. She lets her coy, dark gaze linger on him now, and she feels it rising in her throat like bile --- pity. 

To be pitied is to be weak. 

They’re done: she’s made her blows and toppled her towers. Evadne almost turns to leave, but then he says something she can hardly expect, and in a moment’s inflection, she feels herself grow impossibly cold. She doesn’t step away. Instead, she steps closer. 

“What did you say, Potter?” It’s a cool, low question. A black shadow enters her gaze. In her chest, her heart begins to pick up its pace. Though externally she maintains the shimmering facade of calm, a spike of anxious fury comes into being, like a match lit. Surely Declan hadn’t exposed their shared secret -- and if to anyone, surely not to Charles. Surely he hadn’t betrayed them, hadn’t betrayed her in the most heinous of ways. It was the most regrettable and terrifying thing in her life, to have handed the leader of their enemy the ammunition to bring her to her knees: to blow the deck from under her and watch her drown beneath the waves of slander. 

But if Declan was to expose her, then he would strip himself naked too. 

She forces herself to smile again. It’s not kind, but rather some sort of slow, creeping thing; like a beast crouched to the ground, ready to spring, ready to draw blood if need be. 

“Do you think I care about your little posse, Charles?” She moves in, and without any semblance of permission, reaches up to straighten the younger boy’s collar. There is something innately intimate about the gesture, but she can almost sense the goosebumps rising over his skin, a revulsion as deeply rooted as attraction. “Do you really think I give a fuck about who buries your dead?” She gives the fabric a pull, then smooths her hands over his shoulders. Her voice falls to a thrilling whisper, though her words are nothing to flirt with, only to shudder over. “The only time I’ll pay attention is when the casket’s six feet under.” 

[reginaserpentes-blog]

cygnusblck:

It’s all really very inconvenient, this tragic blight of noisy, messy Muggle weaponry. To be clear: Cygnus Black is a fanatic acolyte of chaos, and he’s not yet encountered a bout of havoc that hasn’t appealed to him. His only qualm with the bedlam that’s engulfed the castle is this: he can’t partake in it. He wants to play (he always wants to play, Cygnus); he wants to explore the playground of rubble and ash, wants to kiss plumes of smoke and taste hellfire on his tongue. But he can’t do those things, not any of them, because he and his serpentine companions are in timeout, condemned to the dank dungeons like vermin. Preposterous. It’s all really very inconvenient, you see, and he’s really very bored. 

All boredom and no play makes Cygnus a dangerous, dangerous boy.

And then, like a siren, she sings (or seethes), and then, like a sailor, he’s bewitched. He’s been watching her sparingly since they arrived to their impromptu refuge (he always is—watching her, that is), and he suspects she’s weathering a maelstrom of emotion that’s equal parts unease, restlessness, and fury (she’s as fond of chaos as he is, Evadne, but she, like him, is partial to invoking chaos, not enduring it). She’s unnerved, he can tell, and if he doesn’t anchor her soon, Muggle bombs will be the least of everyone’s worries (what was a little jaunt of nuclear warfare in comparison to the cataclysmic hurricane of Evadne Carrow’s wrath?). And so he rises to his feet, pauses, wraps his fingers around Walburga’s wrist and squeezes lightly (‘I’ll be back, sister’), moves to Evadne’s side (where he belongs), and sinks to the floor.

“Evadne Carrow,” he tuts, clicking his tongue scoldingly, with mock-reproof. “Quit your griping, little raven.” Little raven. He calls her this often, and it’s really quite coincidental, he supposes—raven, like his Patronus. Curious, no? Almost as if she’s as intrinsic to his soul as the avian watcher of the night. Almost as if she’s his happiest memory. Very curious, yes. Very coincidental, Cygnus would insist. “You’re trapped in close quarters with me. What have you to gripe about?” Grinning crookedly, coolly, he sweeps one arm beneath her knees and braces the other one behind her back, tugging her into his lap with ease. “Don’t be so bothered, lover,” He inclines his head marginally, his lips brushing firstly against her temple, secondly against the spot right between her jaw and her neck, and thirdly, finally, against the slope of her shoulder. “Leave that to me,” he mumbles against her skin, but he means, ‘Leave that to me. I’ll get you bothered tonight, when this is all over. I’ll have you arching and wriggling and begging. Leave that to me.’

Tenderly, he cages his arms around her and reaches, carefully, for her wrist, cradling it between his large hands like a broken-winged dove. To be frank, it’s fucking ludicrous, really, that a devil who’s robbed innocence, trust, faith, and life, who’s swallowed the starshine of others’ souls to survive his own darkness and stripped his lovers of their virtue, is capable of this kind of tender worship (for Evadne, he’s capable of anything). The same hands that have hexed and beaten and clawed now curl gingerly around the the swollen curve of her wrist, inspecting the angry splotches of purple and blue with saintly gentleness that a sinner like Cygnus Black has no business wielding. People are looking now, he thinks (he can feel the heavy weight of prying eyes), and he’s not sure if they’re looking because the king and queen of rotten indecency are being—well, indecent, or because the softness with which breaks-his-lovers-like-ragdolls Cygnus Black tends to his paramour is startling. “Does it hurt, mon coeur?”

She leans casually upon the dark stone, and waits for him to come to her. 

And come he does, with his tousled hair and smooth gait and soft eyes (for her, because of her), seeking her out in the shadows like the dusk seeking the horizon, like an eclipse lovingly embracing the sun: endlessly loyal, an ever-enduring grace. Cygnus Black is a force who many would kill to capture. There is something foreboding about him, an undeniable allure which pulls the very stars to the edge of the world and forces them to look over the precipice into the empty unknown. How many poor, foolish girls and hoping, brash boys had slaughtered themselves on the altar only to elicit an echo of his affections? How many hearts had he broken, bones had he snapped; with a tug of his lips, with a flick of his wand? Antonin Dolohov may have come from a land of arctic foxes and snow-tinged cities; but here, in these cool halls and shaded alcoves, they had their very own wolf. He’s coming to her now, picking over bodies laying like sheep in a midnight pasture – he’s coming to her and embracing her like she is the moon, and he cannot help but cry out after her, howl in her name.

Adoration. But my god. She has never known it like she knows his. 

They are reunited, and he immediately takes her, touches her. His mouth spells out hymns against the exposed skin of her neck, a fluttering as soft and tender as candlelight, yet all at once searing in its complexities. Evadne need only close her eyes and let him sweep her off her feet; and they are folded elegantly together; a vision of convoluted beauty, all at once made impossibly distant from the others who rot with them. They are not ruined; they are ruination. She knows that he doesn’t shy from blood  – they have both seen it before, they have touched it, reveled in it, lauded it above all others. The scarlet smear on her skin is just a reminder of her sacrifice. What great empire can endure revolution without its deities spilling ichor for the masses? 

“Baby,” she murmurs to him, and in his lap she is made holy. “Baby,” and this second time is both more quiet and more full of want, because she can deny her heart until the day she dies, but what she cannot expel is this: the beating of it as she looks into his eyes, the strange heat of their moment of stolen intimacy. The rest of the snakes look on with thinly-veiled hunger, as their casanova kisses their seducer. Her wolf has come to bow before her, and now she presses her fingers against his cheek, and lets them linger. She has endured blasphemy and destruction and terrible, terrible things tonight, but if he can sense the turmoil still building in her chest, then he has come to soothe her like none other can. The very sight of him, dark brows knit in anxious trepidation, sends a wave of relief through her. "I missed you.“ She had missed him on the midst of chaos, she had missed him when she was alone and lost and stumbling. Even reunited, she still misses him now. His absence aches. His presence, burns.

She doesn’t say more. They have fallen into a state that is beyond the need for words. 

When he takes her wrist, her first instinct is to hiss; but very few people know how gentle Cygnus Black can be when he truly cares for something. He can destroy civilizations with a cruel sweep of his lips, raze continents with a line of cutting rhetoric elicited in the dead of the night: but there is also this. Tender worship. Evadne clenches her jaw, swallowing, as he examines the mess of bruises which extends down the length of her forearm. Faintly violet, growing deeper by the hour. Does it hurt? he asks. And it does, it does. But of course, she would not admit it so easily. “Not enough,” she says instead, and from the way his gaze flicks to her, she knows that he understands what she means. It’s a phrase of theirs (they had many secret phrases, Evadne and Cygnus, but this was one of the few that they would say to one another in public), something that has roots which delve deep into the abyss of their understanding of each other. 

Evadne Carrow is brought to her knees on the dueling platform, and she is vicious and growling, fighting tooth and nail even in near-defeat. There is blood on her cheek, it drips in scarlet rivulets towards her chin. She is disarmed, pinned down, cornered. Her opponent, a fellow snake, steps over her smugly, wand raised to deliver the final blow – and those who are in attendance can practically witness Cygnus Black’s tension, his desire to come to her aid, a quivering, despairing need which manifests in the clench of his hands, the sudden start forward, the way he abruptly stops himself. He mustn't interfere, but Merlin, there’s something devastating to the concept of being unable to to destroy that which threatens her, the other half of his team, his ghostly heart. Instead, he calls to her, lightly; “Are you hurt, cherie?” as if there is not a stake plunging itself into his chest, as if he does not ache to think of his beloved counterpart humiliated upon their mock warground. She glances back at him for the quickest of moments. “Not enough.” And she sweeps her opponent’s feet from beneath them as they draw near. The rest is a matter of conquest. Fast, ruthless, without regard for pain. Without regard for suffering. 

Not enough. Not enough to kill, to hurt, to destroy. She would live. She would conquer. A cruel little smile of remembrance plays across her lips. But even so, it does send sharp tendrils of pain through her, to have his hands against her battered skin, twisted bone. And so Evadne sighs, pressing her face into the crook of his neck, against the soft black of his robes. And for his ears alone, she admits her weakness.  Does it hurt? he asks. She takes a shuddering breath and inhales the scent which lingers about him: decaying roses and blood at dawn, broken hearts and smoke dancing in the winds. And she whispers, “Bitterly.” Then, with another pained smile pressed against the darkness of his body, her voice goes low. “Cygnus darling - can you heal as well as you break?”

[reginaserpentes-blog]

charles-alexander-potter:

If Evadne’s jab about Declan and Leo affected him, it wasn’t apparent. Charles had had plenty of practice dealing with that particular insult; it certainly wasn’t one he hadn’t heard before, and although in his younger years it bothered him and made his mind race, it was nothing more than fodder for an eye-roll now. It wasn’t untrue, he’d come to realize, but he also refused to believe that he hadn’t grown braver with age. There was strength in numbers - of all people, the snakes should have known that - but Charles fancied himself quite capable of going it alone. As such, he allowed his eyes to roll, but whatever exasperation he might have emulated was snuffed out by Evadne’s quick second-string attack. 

Something about Charles changed. He hadn’t been slouching before, but he suddenly seemed taller; like a hound whose name had been called for a hunt, he straightened, peering down at Carrow with a look of utter disgust plastered to his face. She knew exactly what she was doing, and the realization infuriated him almost as much as her words. Bellavie was a sensitive subject for all of them (even if she wished she wasn’t), and even calm, stoic Charles felt his fingers tingle with anticipation, itching to reach for the beech wand in his pocket. But he knew better. 

He wished he didn’t. 

He envied Declan and Leo sometimes - envied their quick tempers and fiery dispositions. Storms raged inside him too, but he seldom set them loose, allowing them to erode him from the inside out. 

The muscle in his jaw gave another violent twitch. “She’s twice the witch you’ll ever be, nevermind what sort of blood her parents have,” he snarled. He supposed he could have found better, prettier, and more cutting words, but all that would come out was the truth. “And I suppose you could say there’s a sort of ‘buzz,’ but it’s not one you’d understand. Helping other people and being a decent human being isn’t in your repertoire.”   

She has a semi-automatic tongue, and it very rarely fails her. 

Witnessing the shift upon Charles’ ordinarily stoic face -- like the turn of a coin on its edge -- is proof of how it lethally it strikes. Fury is elicited easily if one knows where to hit the hardest; and when it came to the precious quartet of dreamers, only a fool could aim and miss the target: a girl painted in shades of red and blue and white, the colours of England and war, mundane chaos and pitiful propaganda. Everyone could see how they doted upon her, the weakling, the muggle filth which marred an otherwise presentable front. Bellavie Chambers, the hamartia of three boys who could have been so much more if only they had fortified their Achilles heel with more than flesh and blood. 

It almost upsets her, to see such potential go to waste. But ah, she said ‘almost’. 

“Really.” It’s a sardonic, belittling inflection of her voice. Evadne smiles, slow and sharp, like a she-wolf who languidly shows her teeth to the rabbits hiding in the snow. Her muzzle is red. The prey is frozen in terror. “Are you saying, Charlieboy, that your little Miss Chambers could beat me in a duel?” She pauses, lips turned up in a false show of goodwill, eyes narrowing into dark-lashed crescents. The Carrows are a small but fiercely prideful family -- and it hasn’t escaped her, the legacy for arrogance. It tinges her whole. “Though -- I do think it could be more dramatic if it were a proper battle. There would be no Dumbledore to intervene, no safeguard, no excuses. Victory would be lasting. Don’t you agree?” 

Evadne turns her back to Charles momentarily as she circles back towards her trunks, which have now been stacked neatly in a precarious pile. Besides it, houseelves pant in exhaustion, sweating beneath the heat of the midday sun. She surveys their work for a moment, decides that it’s terribly pitiful, and with a click of her tongue and an airy wave of her hand; dismisses them back to the manor, where they will undoubtedly spend the remainder of the day toiling with equally pathetic effort. When she turns back towards the conversation, her wand is out; a slender dark length gripped casually between her fingers. 

“Now, which of you would pay for her funeral?” Wingardium Leviosa, she says; taking pleasure in the uneasiness of her companion as her wand flicks. The trunks rise from the ground and hang uncertainly in the air as she holds them stagnant. “Yaxley wouldn’t have the support, and you wouldn’t have the guts. Prewett then.” Her smile grows, but it only serves to make her look more unkind, more vicious. The wolf steps forward, her jaw unhinges. Prewett. It was always Prewett. 

“And we come full circle.”