#mulcibitch

[mulcibeetch-blog]

Are you gay?

[merrychristmasbeth]

Nicholas Mulciber: intellectual, manipulative, self-preserving.

[themrsmalfoy-blog]

Hello!

I’m so glad you could make it!

[evamerriweather]

The Coriolan Overture

Coriolanus, op. 62, by Ludwig van Beethoven.

It is a composition (...) rendering the story of a broken conscience and the second motive renders the image of the conquered people. 

Eva Merriweather spends her days in an ordinary fashion. Or so it appears. Everything falls into its usual place. She goes to work, she chats idly with the coworkers she can hardly stand, she hunts down paperwork. It seems like time slowed down. Maybe not for everyone, definitely not for everyone. But being back in the office, now, it’s like floating. Floating one step at a time. One signature, one conversation, one cup of coffee. It’s effortless, really. With no big problems or cases presenting themselves to her at work, she can focus on other things.

The young woman cannot pinpoint precisely when or why she feels drawn to her best mate’s project. It is the ultimate source of his efforts, certainly: ongoing and long-term, collecting information that is bound to prove useful to the Order of the Phoenix. She’s known about it for weeks, bordering on months maybe. Of course, she never particularly cared one way or another for what was going on with that project. She would pry, she would ask, but never with true intentions. Before, it was out of a desire for conversation. An attempt to break Bartlett’s code, to get inside his brain, to make him open up somehow, anyhow. Sitting on her bed, bundled up with a cat on either side of her, Eva knows that wasn’t the case any longer.

She holds in her hand a list of names, names that would be beneficial to—to someone.

It is almost like an itch. She feels it but she can’t see it. It’s under her skin, crawling and creeping and motivating her every move. It steers the curls in her script as she scratches quill across parchment:

I’ve got names for you. Meet me in Hyde Park at noon. -EM

It drives the name she writes in perfect cursive:  

Mr. Nicholas Mulciber.

It sings the directions she gives her owl:

“Go immediately to him and do not let anyone else get to this, you hear? If he’s not there, you come straight back.”

She doesn’t know why she does the things she does, not anymore. Despite not knowing, she does maintain an assurance that she knows it’s for a purpose. It is a feeling beyond herself, beyhond her being. It is something she knows will make an impact. Such a basic human desire, the feeling of being needed, of being used for knowledge and talent.

And damn, Eva thinks at the very, very, very deep core of herself: it feels fucking nice to have a purpose.  

[themrsmalfoy-blog]

Would you be opposed to my stopping by after work tomorrow evening? -Mulciber

I’d be quite open to it. I will see you then.

Yours, Narcissa

[themrsmalfoy-blog]

You haven't a spare minute, have you? -Mulciber

Not many, but I can give you a few.

Yours, Narcissa

[evamerriweather]

Ghost Stories | Mulciber & Eva

She knew she needed this. Some time. A getaway. Her mother. The month, as it progressed, seemed only to get worse and worse. Eva Merriweather found herself constantly in a mood. She couldn’t break out of the sour thoughts and the stress was taking a toll on her body. All the self-medicating with booze and cigarettes, lately a spliff to help her sleep, a trick learned from Pedro, bartender at one of the hole-in-the-wall pubs she frequented-- her body yearned for a detox of sorts. She was thin, her face and hands especially reflecting her weight loss. It was subtle, of course. No one who saw her every day truly noticed. She could see it, and she knew her mum would. Looking in the mirror, seeing new shadows from where her cheeks seemed a slight bit more prominent, where her jaw jut just a little more than normally. Only, she couldn’t seem to break herself of any of these habits. Besides, weight loss wasn’t a bad thing. It was a side effect she didn’t mind. The real goal, and what was accomplished through her bender of alcohol and substances, was to forget about it all.

It was funny how she could wipe away the loneliness, rid herself of the memories of her sister, forget about all the mistakes she’d made. Alcohol was amazing like that. Sleep was dreamless when she passed out after several drinks too many. It was preferable.

Her mother insisted on reaching out to her: calling daily; leaving message after message; asking, asking, asking. And eventually, she got through. Something had to give and it did. Nearly letting Mabel out of the house after drunkenly forgetting to close the door one evening when she got home, Eva realized she was only harming those around her. She’d been uncommunicative to her friends, to everyone who thought about her. It wasn’t doing anyone any good, not even herself. She left a scrawled note left on the kitchen table for Donovan to explain her whereabouts and inform him she’d be back after a week, paid a phone call to her mum, and made a quick visit to the Ministry of Magic to request the time off for personal reasons. Getting approval, of course, was difficult. It required a long conversation, a bit of shouting, and some tears that she was, admittedly, ashamed of. But she needed it. Her mind needed it, her body.

She hated using apparation or floo to get to her mum’s home. Magic seemed superfluous and unnecessary. There was something calming about waiting in queue for a ticket, boarding the underground, and watching all the people. Doing things the Muggle way was ingrained in her brain from having come from a non-magic family.

And so, on foot, Eva started towards the station. A chill was in the air, and she regretted not bringing her heavier wool cloak. The weather was relentless, paving the way for winter as the leaves turned brown from their vibrant oranges and reds. She stared up at the sky, grey and blustering. Was it to rain that day? Probably. Her bony hands came to the scarf wrapped around her neck, pulling it further up and shielding her lips, chapped white and lined red from the pre-travel glass of cabernet, from a particularly violent wind. “Oh, shite,” she mumbled, the strap of her purse sliding down her arm and spilling some of its contents. She bent at the pavement to pick it up, watching feet pass her by. A tube of lipstick, a pen, several muggle coins, and a few nips of booze scattered around her, threatening to be taken away in the hustle and bustle of it all. She worked as quickly as she could, hoping the time spent retrieving her things wouldn’t cause her to miss the 4:45 tube towards Bethnal Green.

[dementedscabior]