#∟thread

[asphodelroot]

Potter Home Domestics

@mr-potter | JAMES

“And now you get to lick the spoon,” Lily said, presenting the chocolate coated implement to her son with a flourish, who took it with a giggle and a grin. “But in exchange,” she told him, making him pause and look at her a little warily, until she leaned forward to plant a dramatically wet and sloppy kiss on his cheek, cleaning up some wayward chocolate from earlier, “I get to clean up your cheek,” she finished as Harry squealed, scrubbing at his cheek as he sucked on the spoon. Making sure he was occupied with his treat, she turned to put the pan of brownies in the oven and then snagged the bowl to scrape clean with the spatula before starting to wash it out. 

Glancing at the clock, she reached for her wand to get some other clean up working. “Papa will be home soon,” she told Harry, smiling broader as the boy lit up, but refused to let go of spoon he was steadfastly cleaning. Not until he’d thoroughly licked it clean. Then he offered it to Lily proudly. “Very good -- now wash it and put it on the rack to dry,” she said sternly. Maybe some would find it odd that she made him help with chores the Muggle way, but she refused to let him come to rely on magic as a crutch. Harry would know as much about his muggle heritage as his magical, if she had any say in the matter. Helping him down from the counter, she ruffled his hair—she blamed James for that habit, just as he was responsible for their son’s untameable mop. With the spoon tucked away on the drying rack, she scooped him up in her arms, kissing his other cheek.

“Shall we ask Papa if he wants to go flying tonight?” she asked him, bouncing him into giggles again. “YEAH,” he said, green eyes lighting up. The soft chime of the wards had the boy squirming to get free of her arms, knowing that the sound meant either Papa, Uncle Remmy or Uncle Sirus were here and he had to rush to meet them at the door. Following along behind, Lily stretched her arms out over her head, muttering the codes to stand down the remaining wards.

[vulnussanentur]

@stxrkvd | PARIS

Paris and Severus both found solace in the quiet. While others of their little group might prefer chaos or be too enamored with the sound of their own voice to allow the air to go empty, this pair had always operated just fine in silence. Thus when Severus found the elder boy in one of their shared hideaways, where one or both of them could escape their compatriots, he didn’t even consider starting a conversation.

He couldn’t begin to fathom what Paris was dealing with, how he was feeling, what he was thinking. Father dead, murdered in the line of duty, cut down in the name of the Dark Lord. That brought honor and dignity, sure, but those were cold comforts to grief. Not to mention the pressures that no doubt came with being heir apparent.  To his own family name, certainly, but to the gaggle of devotees who had sworn vengeance on his behalf as well. A new responsibility, and new prescience of the war that had before seemed inevitable but now seemed to have arrived in the halls of Hogwarts.

They both knew all that. Just as Severus knew Paris would either tell him what he needed, if he needed anything, or he wouldn’t. Talking about it wouldn’t change that. Thus Severus settled in with an acknowledging nod, ready to simply be there for the rare person he still considered a friend, no matter what he asked for. Be it nothing or to fly away and raze Hogsmeade to the ground. Severus was here for it. Here for Paris.

[vulnussanentur]

∟ open thread now closed ∟ courtyard; early evening

The entire population of the castle seemed to be pouring out of doors in some allergic reaction to being told to stay inside for a few days. Severus suspected it was more to do with the teenage rebellion against authority than actually having to stay inside that was the issue. After all, he too had started to suffer from the restlessness and he was not one to be much concerned about staying cooped up. With the lockdown lifted, he’d slipped away from the castle to venture around to the far side of the lake, in search of some potion ingredients and some peace and quiet, satchel stocked with some food pilfered from the breakfast table and his notebook and pen to enable a whole day out.

It wasn’t hunger that had him returning to the castle (missing one dinner would hardly be unheard of for him) but the nipping cold sinking in to his fingers despite the warming charms. A few uneaten pumpkin rolls had been dumped in the forest in favour of the plant roots now carefully tucked away in his back, cushioned from premature crushing by his sacrificed scarf. The resulting redness taking over his nose from the cold would be worth it if he could successfully use the roots as substitute for a much more expensive and finicky ingredient in a potion he was working on.

Smirking to himself, he chaffed his hands together, stopping the courtyard for a moment to appease the lingering jitteriness that objected to the idea of going back inside. Perching himself on the wall, he pulled out his notebook and pen and went over the few scattered notes on a spell in progress he’d jotted down. Absorbed in his notes, he didn’t realize when he was no longer alone in the courtyard.

[honoralynch-hrarchive]

Nightingale We Are Not

@healingvance December 1st McKinnon Farm

To be frank, Nora wasn’t quite sure how she’d been dragged into this. Proximity, perhaps. A tendency to butt herself in to where she shouldn’t be, wasn’t wanted, until they found a chance to use her. It seemed a bit retaliatory to her; a bit ‘making her work for her keep’. She didn’t see any of the other hideaways being put to work (never mind that she’d forced herself upon them and was hardly the same as the rest).

But there was no point complaining about it to the healer she’d been ‘assigned’ to. Not that she had much time to, kept bustling about in the sitting room turned makeshift clinic, in preparation for... she wasn’t even sure what. Setting down a pile of clean linen with a grunt, she turned and leaned against the table as she eyed the younger woman. “How many casualties are you expecting tonight?” she asked, eyeing the whole set up.

[honoralynch-hrarchive]

You Could See Me

McKinnon Farm November 20th, 1981

Per usual, Nora was where she wasn’t supposed to be. “Stay away from the pastures,” was a pretty loudly unspoken rule, followed by “Don’t disturb the pegases.” There was no misconception in her mind that her quietly leaning on the fence, watching the pretty horsies with wings idly amble about, would be construed into something antagonist and destructive. After all, she was with the werewolves and they had destruction in their very nature. Really, it was a miracle the horses weren’t all panicked and twitchy from her mere presence, would no doubt be the concern; she was stressing them out.

Yes, they looked very stressed, like the one wandered over only to quickly ascertain Nora had neither apples nor sugar, dismissively flicked their tail, batted one big brown eye at her and proceeded to shit.

“Well, same to you, buddy,” Nora muttered, grimacing and leaning back to try and escape the smell. No luck, she’d have to move upwind a bit. “I’d feed you if I could—but they’d probably accuse me of trying to poison you.” Wasn’t that the latest thing, as they all recovered from what dreadful plague had gripped them and they pieced themselves back together. Mysterious that none of the wolves had gotten sick, right? Filthy animals that they are. Shifting her spot, she grinned as the pegasus followed her. “All right Stinker, next time I’ll see if I can’t slip you a carrot or something.”

[vulnussanentur]

Death Can Suck My D—

November 17th, 1981 @properpureblood-emma

A sick Severus Snape is the world being in existence to be around.

—one might argue that crown should go to Lucius Malfoy, but one would be wrong for a simple reason. Given enough fussing and pampering, even Lucius Malfoy can be soothed into complacent peace. Severus Snape, when laid up with illness, falls to such depths of misanthropy that being left alone is the only cure.

Mercifully, Severus had enough Suck-Up Capital left from his participation in the disastrous Ministry Masquerade to owl in sick with limited repercussions beyond a hard hit to his personal potion stores as he ground through iteration after iteration of attempted cure for this ailment. Far too many hours were spent cursing whoever had fiddled with magic and inadvertently released this seasons version of particularly nasty Wizarding Plague (he’d compare it to the muggle Flu Season, except this was inevitably the result of some well intention ed Healer attempting to come up with a Cure for something or another that got out of hand and had a whole menu of nasty side effects.) as he bent over the toilet and voided the last iteration of his cure.

Eventually, about half way through his personal store of potion supplies, far too many reams of paper, and four days later, he conquered the bug, the magic underlying it so thoroughly picked apart at that he could make a brew that targeted both the symptoms and the cause, even if the source and infection vector remained obscured. Oh well, it was good enough for what he needed; namely, to escape his self-made blanket prison and manage to Floo to the Malfoy Manor without losing his stomach. One antidote and several tranquilizers disguised as guard against reinfection distributed later, and Severus was restored to his usual dour sanguinity. The grateful praise of the much subdued Malfoys was the sort that Severus could bask in, and he lingered long enough to learn that the mysterious illness had reached beyond those rare select that could claim ‘cared for by Malfoys’ into the general populace.

That was all it took to let Severus return to work the next day with a smug certainty of plenty of customers. There were still a few refinements that could be made (not that he’d let Lucius know that, who would no doubt not be able to resolve the internal conflict of wanting the best for his son at the same time as wanting the soonest for his son), but those were steadily bubbling away in cauldrons as Severus manned the shoppe counter, for once almost cheerful. After a period of being laid low and vulnerable, Severus Snape was back on top of his little piece of the world, secure in his knowledge and his plans.

[vulnussanentur]

Pinning Predicament

October 31, 1981, Masquerade | Post Explosion @cxradocdearborn

The evening was a resounding success. Smiling at the Minister as the woman chattered about something or another that Narcissa simply didn’t truly care about but was still devoting half her attention to listen to, she sipped her drink and swept her eyes across the gathered crowd. It was a remarkably diverse group, highly egalitarian, which was exactly what this reception was meant to be. The private dinner was a little more exclusive, of course, but still remarkably cut a reasonably representative slice of society. Those nasty rumors might swirl about, but based on tonight there was little substance to them as they attempted to stick to Lucius Malfoy. Which was exactly the point of all of this.

The Minister finished her thought and Narcissa started to move away, thanking her for the lovely evening (as if she and not Cissy had organized most of it) and making excuses about not wanting to monopolize the woman. Turning, she spotted Lucius through the crowd, positively charming everyone in arms reach. For a brief moment, she caught his eye and she smiled at him; a warm, affectionate, but purely polite smile. After all, the Malfoys, for all their inexplicable attachment to each other and tendency towards showing that were dignified, respectable people, and appropriate behavior did not run to clinging to each other or shooting witheringly passionate looks across crowds at public events.

Before Lucius forgot that, Narcissa turned again, setting her glass down on a passing tray. From here, she had a perfect view of the crowning achievement of the evening: the statue. It was beautiful, of course, but also very . . .  Lucius. Ostentatious and Extravagent were the mildest terms that could be applied to it. But then, that was the Malfoys in two words as well. Personally, Narcissa came from stock that preferred a little more subtlety, and didn’t feel the need to flaunt such wealth, but she had married into that clan of excess. And adjust well, if her costume for the evening was anything to go by.

She looked like one of the statues come to life, her robes a rich gold that tumbled down from a knotted bunch on her shoulders. Her hair was piled high on her head, pale blonde locks flecked with more gold, while her mask was a masterpiece of goblinwork. Little wonder that she kept being complimented and compared to the statue. In fact, as she looked up at the statue, she found a man with a camera at her elbow. Something about a photo for the Daily Prophet. But of course! All gracious smiles, she agreed and swept into what was the optimal place for a photo of the statues (scouted out before hand for just such an occasion, of course). Falling easily into an elegant pose, she waited, and wondered why the man wasn’t taking the picture. Except, there was someone shouting behind her -- was someone up on the statue, no this was unacceptable, where was secu—

. . . had she fallen sleep with Draco curled up on her chest again? When had he gotten so heavy? True, he was a growing boy, the very best boy, but this—perhaps it was time to listen to Twilly and cut down on the sugarplums Draco was eating. And what was that screaming, like a tortured bell endlessly ringing in her head, pounding against her skull. No, no, that wasn’t right. None of that was right.

Narcissa’s eyes flew open with a gasp, or the attempt of one. Something heavy was crushing down on her, and refused to budge as she pushed against it, the warm, smooth surface unyielding against her hands. Blinking to try and clear her vision of the spots, she struggled to keep breath in her paralyzed lungs, fighitng to keep the panic at bay. Finally, her sight started to clear, but it provided few answers. Was that a hoof? Why was she under a horse. No, a centaur. An oversized one. Made of gold. The centaur of the statue! What had happened? Groaning, she struggled, trying to free herself, but she was well and truly pinned. At least one of her hands was free to reach out, scrambling beyond the confines of her equine cage. “Hello?” she called, unable to hear herself over the ringing that drowned out the rest of the world to the point that it might as well no exist. Her fingers touched something warm, delicate -- fingers! Someone’s hand. “Hello!” she repeated, raising her voice as she clung to them. Grunting with the effort of trying to fill her lungs, she pulled, tugging them closer as she tried to get her head to stop spinning. “Please, I can’t move, someone needs to levitate this off me.” Twisting, she could look out through the gap she was reaching through, to the light, to the person. The stopped for a moment, and panic rising, she tugged, only to have them give away after a second. There was a sputter of dust, rubble, and then Narcissa realized she was holding the hand—and only the hand—of the photographer who moments before had been gushing about her dress and asking her to pose. Cissy screamed without any air in her lungs, a low guttural sound as she flung it away from her.