Tarquin McTavish

We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are. We cannot be born, and we cannot die. Like all energy, we can only change shapes and sizes and manifestations.

[tmctavish-blog]

@ems-vance // 💌 for a letter my muse would write to yours.

Emmeline,

I don’t have a lot of time left before my trial. As far as I’m aware, they don’t have any evidence to link me to Death Eaters other than my friendship with Amycus and my distaste for Muggleborns. I know I am guiltier than they make out, despite the lack of the mark on my arm. I can tell by the look in their eye that they know it too. But I was never a Death Eater, so they don’t have a lot to go on.

But I hear a lot of things awaiting trial. In the next block over, one of Lestrange brothers is going mad. I can barely think over him screaming about the future rise of the Dark Lord. He’s not going to avoid Azkaban, and he almost seems proud of it. You can’t question his loyalty. He doesn’t get to write letters like I do – ‘Can’t be trusted not to curse it’ or something. I’m actually a little insulted that they doubt my magical ability.

I know you have to read this and check it before you send it, you pricks. How’s it feel that your life revolves around checking in on other people’s lives? And let me have a god damn shower, I’m not a fucking animal.

Getting off track a little.

You hear a lot of gossip when you’re here. I mean, there are a lot of us. Some like me, bad eggs in the wrong crowd. Others who claim that they were under the Imperious curse, like Malfoy. A couple of them have committed suicide. But they all have something to say about the Order. And you’ll never guess who I discovered was part of it!

You.

We all knew you had secrets, Emmeline. We’d seen you hang around with that Mudblood – Evans, wasn’t it? Before she popped her clogs. I mean, I didn’t care. I had no loyalty to either side, but you did a grand job helping dob in some of your supposed friends. Myself included, by the way. You know, for all the times we were together, you could have slipped into conversation, ‘by the way, I don’t agree with your view on Muggles and I agree with Order’. A warning, so I could stay the fuck away from you.

Anyway, I’m not the type to just write and moan. They told me I’m allowed to bring a representative to the trial with me. I figure you owe me as you screwed me over so tremendously. You’re seeing too many of your old so called family getting put on trial, help one of them out – or have you lost all value of Pureblood.

They’re holding me and some of your old friends in the Ministry, feel free to visit. My trial is next Monday, and I would absolutely be thrilled if you could join me. And if I get Azkaban because of you and your pathetic little ‘Order of Heroes’ – we will come for you. Some of us won’t be Death Eaters going in, but send us in there and I guarantee, if we ever get out, we will be.

Oh, and if I’m free, you can take me for a drink. Merlin knows I need it.

Tarquin McTavish.

[tmctavish-blog]

☂ = giving them their jumper to keep warm

@thedruellablack

TheGala was dull, and his mother had bored him to tears, babbling to herPureblood friends about a made up profession that her only son had.Merlin forbid that the only remaining male of the McTavish bloodlinewas a Bartender with a filthy drug habit and worked illegally for the‘Skeeter daughter’ on the side. He rolled his eyes as elderly womencongratulated him on the “birth of his son” and escaped themoment they focused their attention on another poor unsuspecting man.

Hemade his way to the large garden, before turning to look up at theManor. He’d forgotten who’s property this was, truthfully he didn’tcare. He would not have attended, but his mother was spiteful.Despite her less prejudice ways, and her caring nature, Tarquin wouldruin her reputation. She would sell him out just as quickly, so itwas easier to play along.

Helit up his cigarette, grateful for the relief it brought with it, andhis eyes observed his surroundings. It had been a long time sincehe’d lived somewhere this big. After his mother kicked him out, he’dsettled in his one bedroom apartment. A life of luxury was not forhim. His gaze diverted again, to the only other guest outside. Awoman, certainly older than him but perhaps a little younger than hismother. She looked youthful, but the air about her showed wisdom withage. Despite this, she was shivering. It was more habit than anythingthat Tarquin took off his suit jacket and approached her, wrapping itaround her shoulders. That was what a gentleman did at Gala’s.

“Smoke,ma'am?” He asked politely, offering her an unlit cigarette.

[tmctavish-blog]

@thedruellablack

Tarquin confirmed what Druella had already guessed, but it wasn’t as though she was planning on telling the whole party. “Some people don’t want to wait for those things to actually happen so they make it up. With a son, it’s easier. With a daughter, the child is assumed to join her to the party,” she explained to the young man, hoping he didn’t hold too much of a grudge against his mother for her gushing.

“It was bound to happen at some point, sadly. There’s only so long before people start seeing a problem with marrying cousins,” Druella admitted. It was something purebloods rarely spoke of, but it was there nonetheless. To the best of her knowledge, she and Cygnus were not directly related, thank goodness.

“My mother is just anxious for me to become something I’m not. Or rather, anxious for me becoming someone she doesn’t like. She forgets I’m not a child, nor do I want to raise one in this world.”

He leant backwards giving a deep sigh. His mother always irritated him. The rush to get married to a nice woman, of whatever heritage, and carry an heir that would justify the McTavish name was a conversation they had often. And while Tarquin was not opposed to having a family one day, he certainly didn’t like the idea of one now.

“I suppose it’s above incest in a certain aspect. The shame of being a dying breed.” He informed her sadly, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “I recognise your face, and I know you, but I’m afraid I can’t place a name, I apologise.”

[casually-furious-blog]

Charmsing Night

[tmctavish-blog]

@casually-furious

“Gotta scrape by somehow,” Lucinda acknowledged. She, thankfully, did not have that problem. Her parents paid for the necessities, and her job at Persephone’s Garden paid for everything else. She was hardly scraping by, but nor was she sitting on her ass either waiting to be handed everything on a silver platter.

She flicked some ash off the end of the cigarette, brought it back to her lips for another slow, long inhale. The smoke burned in a way similar to, but also very different from the firewhiskey, several glasses of which had already slid down her throat. She liked the combination of the alcohol and the cigarette giving her a slightly lightheaded sensation.

Removing the cigarette from her lips, a red ring from her lipstick noticeable against the stark white, Lucinda’s gaze searched the bar. She kindly let her eyes linger on the two men Tarquin had wanted her to agitate throughout the night. They both noticed of course.

A man sat in the far corner. A man getting to be fat, but with nice enough clothes. His hair was receding, forming a crown on the top of his head that she was sure in proper lights, would be shiny.

“His wife just left him,” she said, nodding towards the git. He was just sitting at his little table, hands clutched around his pint and a few shot glasses sitting on the table waiting to be collected. “Left him for another man. They’ve been married for ten years. So he’s sad. But he’s also drinking because he’s not sad, which, in turn, makes him sad. But he’s relieved to be out, and feels guilty. Because he has a thing for the accountant, though he’d never admit it to the man.”

He continued to scan her face, watching her calculated actions move from patron to patron. The billowing spoke gave him comfort, as an aggressive customer stood and stormed out of the bar. As she removed the cigarette, he saw the red ring of her lipstick, and flicked his gaze up momentarily to see if there was an absence of lipstick there. But as he tried to see, she began to speak again, and he turned his attention to the man in the corner, listening to her story.

He chuckled, picturing it in his head and nodding in approval. “Seems about right. I’d say the accountant is a pretty blonde, completely out of his league, who prances around the office and uses her assets for attention. And the poor bugger reckons he has a chance cos she bends over a bit too much round his desk.”

His gaze moved back around the room, landing on a wretched looking woman in the corner. He tapped Lucinda gently on the arm and indicated to her. “Used to be on the cover of witch weekly. Most attractive witch for three seasons before she found out her husband had an affair with another man. – Can’t be sure if it was her brother or just a close friend.”

He knocked back another shot of Firewhiskey, poured himself another along with more for his, temporary, favourite patron. He reached into his pocket, finding his cigarette packet, contemplating as he watched her observe the room. She was young, but she reminded him of what he was once like. Since Vic died, he’d not had the same troublemaker relationship with anyone. But even looking at this girl made him nostalgic.

[tmctavish-blog]

“You know just how to make me smile, Emmeline.” He chuckled, lowering his voice somewhat. “What mischief do you suppose we cause tonight? I hear there’s new money here today. Reckon we can make them realise what misery they’ve walked into?”

[ems-vance-deactivated20181031]

“We both know I’ve never been a sit down and shut up type of girl.” She smirked a bit before scanning the crowd. “Do you mean to tell me we’ve opened our hallowed halls to some fresh meat? We’re definitely going to have to make them regret that, aren’t we?”

“What say you we go find our new friends and make them feel right at home.”

[tmctavish-blog]

“I say you read my mind. But first, alcohol. And a cigarette. And maybe something a little more illegal, if you’re interested?” He gave her a wink, grasping her hand in his and moving her away from the crowd so he could lead her outside to have a smoke.

“And what do you suppose we do when we get back in? I’m thinking.... fake an affair. I reckon.... her husbands having it off with a Muggle neighbour. What do you think?”

[tmctavish-blog]

McSkeeter - A Summary {OTP Meme}

Who is the most affectionate?

Tarquin. Rita is pretty affectionate if she’s sad or if she’s had a bad day, but Tarquin is usually the one who is more open to hugging and general touching, even if he is a complete asshole to her about it afterwards and pretends it was all her idea.

Big spoon/Little spoon?

Rita is definitely the little spoon. Tarquin loves feeling protective, but they don’t usually cuddle while sleeping. If they ever catch themselves doing it, they’d pick on each other mercilessly and accuse the other of having romantic feelings.

Most common argument?

Anything and everything. The two argue every single time they see each other. It’s sometimes over the smallest thing, like why didn’t you clean up after I left yesterday or it would be big arguments when they really feel like getting a rise out of each other such as bringing up each other’s past and parents. Their most common argument is usually down to jealousy though. Accusing the other of seeing multiple others, despite not being in any sort of official relationship, and just generally acting like envious idiots. They always make up in the end.

Favourite non-sexual activity?

Probably their missions that they do together. Despite Tarquin pretending he hates it, he does enjoy going undercover with Rita so she can get gossip for her journalist job. He likes pretending to be something he’s not, and he definitely loves the different ideas and outfits Rita comes out with. But they’d never act as though they enjoyed each other’s company.

Who is most likely to carry the other?

Tarquin would carry Rita in a sober situation. Rita would have to attempt to carry Tarquin whenever he was absolutely plastered.

What is their favourite feature of their partner’s?

Tarquin loves Rita’s eyes, Rita always skims over his tattoos with fondness.

What’s the first thing that changes when they realize they have feelings for the other?

They never really realise they have feelings for each other. They just always have. The first time they really acknowledged it however, Tarquin treated her like shit the next day. While it’s obvious to both of them that there is clearly something other than the sexual tension, they both flat out refuse it. Although they do have secret moments where they are very kind and loving to each other, even if they pretend it didn’t happen the next day.

Nicknames? & if so, how did they originate?

Rita calls Tarquin Irish, because his surname is Scottish, in an attempt to annoy him. Tarquin doesn’t have any nicknames for Rita, except for the occasional repeated insult like ‘Blonde Rat’, ‘Thing’ or ‘It’.

Who worries the most?

Rita, probably. But neither of the two discuss worries or concerns unless it’s really bad.

Who remembers what the other one always orders at a restaurant?

Rita will always remember. Tarquin’s pretty shitty with memory, but Rita always seems to know exactly what Tarquin likes.

Who tops?

Depends on their mood. Usually Tarquin.

Who initiates kisses?

Neither. Kissing would show romance, and they are both adamant that they possess nothing of the sort. But when kisses are initiated, it is usually Tarquin, despite his ignorance about it the next day.

Who reaches for the other’s hand first?

Rita, but it’s very rare.

Who kisses the hardest?

On the rare occasion that they kiss, it’s at an equal level of ferocity, although Rita is gentler in nature.

Who wakes up first?

Depends on what the previous night entailed. Usually Rita.

Who wants to stay in bed just a little longer?

Tarquin.

Who says I love you first?

Neither. It would probably be Tarquin though.

Who leaves little notes in the other’s one lunch? (Bonus: what does it usually say?)

Again, neither. Tarquin might sneak in a little something before she goes to her job, but it wouldn’t be very often.

Who tells their family/friends about their relationship first?

They keep each other pretty secret. While their companionship isn’t unknown, no one really knows what they get up to behind closed doors apart from their closest friends. Rita probably mentioned it to someone before Tarquin as he doesn’t think it’s worth sharing.

What do their family/friends think of their relationship?

Neither of them ask for anyone’s opinion on it, nor would they take any on board.

Who is more likely to start dancing with the other?

Rita will always try to get Tarquin to dance if they have to attend Gala’s together, and Tarquin will grudgingly accept, even though Rita knows full well he is ridiculously clumsy and one of the worst dancers in the Pureblood community.

Who cooks more/who is better at cooking?

Tarquin is a pretty decent cook, but Rita does it more.

Who comes up with cheesy pick up lines?

Tarquin, always Tarquin. As a joke, usually, but sometimes in hope of just making her laugh.

Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear during inappropriate times?

Rita starts it. Tarquin ends it.

Who needs more assurance?

Rita needs more assurance. While Tarquin is messed up and occasionally needs a stern talking too, Rita takes more things to heart and is a little more fragile than she lets on.

What would be their theme song?

The idea of them having a theme song would mortify them.

Who would sing to their child back to sleep?

Tarquin. But Rita would probably join in. – In the very unlikely event that they’d have a child.

What do they do when they’re away from each other?

Tarquin can deal with it for a little while, but he always runs back to her. Rita usually dives into her work, but will do the same if she thinks there’s a reason to be jealous.

one headcanon about this OTP that breaks your heart

Tarquin and Rita are desperately in love, but they also hate each other with as much passion. They may admit feelings in a heated moment, but because of who they are, they will always ignore it or pretend it never happened the next day. They can never truly be together during the war, because of their stubbornness, difference of views in some ways, and general idiocy. They will always love each other, but will never be able to settle down or be truly happy.

one headcanon about this OTP that mends it

When Tarquin gets out of Azkaban, he would attempt to find her. And with new found views in Azkaban, he’d probably try to make it work too.

[tmctavish-blog]

☽ = wandering alone at night

@casually-furious

Hedespised graveyards. They reminded him of his constant andunavoidable phobia, but it was the last resting place on his father.Not that his father deserved someone to visit his grave when theyfound out who he really was. Mister McTavish was an excellentgentleman, a well brought up Pureblood with golden manners and awinning charm. Oh, and he liked to murder, torture and mutilateMuggles on the side. And he was completely in to physical abuse on awoman who didn’t know her place. But other than that…

Noone left flowers at his grave, there’d even been vandalism a fewtimes, not that Tarquin blamed them. But blood was blood. And he had…somewhat raised him. But it did nothing to aid his fear of  theuncertainty and possibility of nothingness when death inevitablycaught up with him. Knowing that his father, that Vic was there, gavehim a small amount of comfort.

Hewas wandering back through the dark fog that lingered aroundforgotten graves, smoking his usual cigarette, when he saw her. Thedark silhouette of a woman, although her actions were unclear. As hewandered closer, unafraid and half intrigued by the mysteriousness ofa woman out on her own at such an hour.

Oncloser inspection, he realised it was a Hogwarts student he’d met nottoo long ago during one of his shifts. The sassy little thing withthe air of superiority and the undeniable talent for trouble.“Talkalot?” Tarquin asked with slight concern. She was only ateen after all, and these were not good times to be out by ones self.“Lucinda, what are you doing?”

[tmctavish-blog]

@casually-furious

Lucinda blinked as he came closer, into her personal space with his coat in his hands to drape around her shoulders. She blinked, unable to process it quickly enough, then cursing herself for stupid for letting him get that close. But even though she wasn’t feeling particularly trusting lately, she sensed that he didn’t mean her any harm.  And he was clearly not afraid of her. So, if he meant to attack her, the only thing to do was to be prepared. Because he was not even wary of her wand, intentionally bumping it, probably to show what he thought of it and her.

But she couldn’t find it in herself to care, not now. Not about his scorn, nor the pity she saw flickering in his eyes. Normally it would have been enough to make her turn on her heel, angry at anyone who dared underestimate her. It still annoyed her, but all her feelings were duller now, farther away. They had to be, or she’d be crushed beneath them, between sadness and guilt and sorrow.

She knew that it wasn’t her fault her parents were dead. But it couldn’t help but feel personal. Even though they would likely have been targets anyway—both working for their respective governments, Muggle and Magic a little too close for comfort—the sting of the words written on her floors and her walls made sure the guilt remained.

Liar.

Traitor.

She hadn’t done anything, had never actively lied, had betrayed no one. She knew that whoever had written that shit had done it to taunt her, to mess with her. She hated to admit that it was working.

Shaking off a bit of her melancholy, she lowered her wand.  Her other hand tugged his jacket a little more around herself, covering the thin long sleeved shirt she was wearing.  She stopped shivering a little, so clearly some of her shaking had not been from exhaustion or upset, but cold.

Fingers reached out to grasp at the cigarette as if it were a lifesaver which was ironic considering. She took a heavy drag, exhaling slowly, giving herself time.

“Thanks,” she said, indicating both the cig and the jacket.

“Yeah, it’s not great,” she said, eyes drawn again to the freshly turned soil, unable to look away. It was hard to believe her parents were there. They hadn’t let her see the bodies. But they had assured her it was her parents. She didn’t want to think about the implications; it was so bad that they wouldn’t let the daughter see. She took another drag and handed the cigarette back to him.

“You visiting too?” she asked with an attempt at a laugh, scuffing her toe in the grass.. It came out too dry and too bitter though.

Tarquin watched her as she seemed to scorn herself for allowing the closeness between them. It was no closer than how they were in the Leaky Cauldron the night they had met, but there was a new wary nature about her. The grasp on her wand, the distrust in her eyes – he couldn’t stand the sight of the defiant yet clearly broken young witch. He didn’t know how to comfort, half the time he hated it. But, even against his original judgement of her, he became fond of her when he served her.

He watched as she took the cigarette from between his fingertips with such speed, as though it was the only thing keeping her breathing. He watched her inhale, eyes lingering on the wisps of smoke that passed her lips. A guilty pleasure – watching those take part in an addiction he had. After a moment of staring, he turned his attention back to the grave.

He reached into his back pocket, brandishing his wand. For a moment, he was concerned that Lucinda would see it as a threat, so he made quick work of saying, “Orchideous.” – And conjuring a wreath onto the graves of her loved ones. Almost immediately after, he placed the wand back in his pocket, almost to indicate that he meant no harm. “I know it doesn’t help.” He told her honestly. “But it’s something.”

She handed the cigarette back to him, and he took another long drag before stubbing it out on the side of his jeans and chucking the stub in the opposite direction of which he was standing. Disrespectful to others, maybe. But he was hardly going to drop it on the grave that his companion was currently mourning. “Who were they?” He asked quietly, trying to make his voice gentle. He wasn’t good at this part.

“Yeah.” He said shortly. “Every now and again I found it therapeutic to be around dead people. With such an uncertainty on what happens after death, it’s nice to remember that many other people have done it too.” He paused before adding, “I don’t know what you believe in, Luci, but if it comforts you, I’m sure they’re watching over you still.” – He wasn’t quick to knock the thought of an afterlife out of his mind. He wanted to believe in one, didn’t want to believe that this was it, but he didn’t believe humanity, wizards or witches, were important enough in the grand scheme of things.

His father was rotting in his cell. Nothing more. But he would never knock what Lucinda believed, especially now. On other times, he would have, mostly because of scepticism and his own irrational fear of the inevitable. But now was not the time.

“How long do you intend on staying out here. Times are getting dangerous.”

[ofhotheads-blog]

EVER WONDER WHAT MY MUSE SAYS ABOUT YOURS?

Send me a symbol.

📖 for what my muse would write about yours in their diary. 📷 for what my muse would say to the paparazzi about yours. 💋 for what my muse would say to the person trying to woo your muse. 🔪 for the eulogy my muse would give for yours. 💌 for a letter my muse would write to yours. 📫 for a letter my muse would write about yours to a third party. 📨 for a text my muse would send to yours. 💬 for a text my muse would send to yours to a third party. 💀 for what my muse would say upon hearing about your muse’s death. 👪 for what my muse would say to your muse’s child about them. 👊 for what my muse would say upon hearing yours has been arrested. 💒 for the toast my muse would give at your muse’s wedding.

[commander-cullywully]

otp question meme

send me a pairing & a number, then I’ll tell you:

Who is the most affectionate?

Big spoon/Little spoon?

Most common argument?

Favorite non-sexual activity?

Who is most likely to carry the other?

What is their favorite feature of their partner’s?

What’s the first thing that changes when they realize they have feelings for the other?

Nicknames? & if so, how did they originate?

Who worries the most?

Who remembers what the other one always orders at a restaurant?

Who tops?

Who initiates kisses?

Who reaches for the other’s hand first?

Who kisses the hardest?

Who wakes up first?

Who wants to stay in bed just a little longer?

Who says I love you first?

Who leaves little notes in the other’s one lunch? (Bonus: what does it usually say?)

Who tells their family/friends about their relationship first?

What do their family/friends think of their relationship?

Who is more likely to start dancing with the other?

Who cooks more/who is better at cooking?

Who comes up with cheesy pick up lines?

Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear during inappropriate times?

Who needs more assurance?

What would be their theme song?

Who would sing to their child back to sleep?

What do they do when they’re away from each other?

one headcanon about this OTP that breaks your heart

one headcanon about this OTP that mends it

[tmctavish-blog]

Peripatetic Problems

[tmctavish-blog]

@tootsshoots-n-roots

Tilden realized how insane he was being, yes a splinch did make sense, he shouldn’t be that worried about someone who was injured. Obviously no one was going to come barging into his home after this man.  The man came from Tilden’s garden, and he was bleeding so much that he could barely walk. Tilden was just jumpy.  Plus, he’s not a death eater, so he should be safe. Right?  

But, you can never be too careful during a time of war, Tilden was just making sure he and his plants were safe.  Wow, that even sounded lame to Tilden in his head.  Some people had cats, Tilden has plants.

Tarquin McTavish, Tilden recognized the name, but honestly could not place it. Tilden was never the best with remembering anything that doesn’t have to do with plants, or remembering anything once he got so frazzled.  He thought hard trying to remember the name, but nothing was clicking, “Did we go to school together?” he asked. Sometimes Tilden was a bit of an air head.  Well, sometimes was generous, most of the time, all the time.  

Pushing a cloth that he grabbed against Tarquin’s shoulder, Tilden started to think about what else he could do for the man. Tilden was absolutely terrible in a crisis, wasn’t he? Keep talking, that would help him to make sure his new friend Tarquin was still awake. “Where were you trying to get to that you ended up in my garden…”

The relief that came over the man’s face was something that made his eyes roll. Were some men really so easy to reassure? While Tarquin’s words were true, and he was certainly no Death Eater, it could have so easily have been a lie and this man had just readily accepted it. It took a couple of moments to piece together a ridiculously obvious thing. A garden, a natural instinct to help, and an easy trust level. Blatant Hufflepuff. He couldn’t help but groan. How did he manage to associate with so many Hufflepuffs?

When Tilden asked if they had gone to school together, Tarquin leant back to look at the man again. Perhaps. There was something vaguely familiar about him. Now that he was imagining the boy with a school tie, he could certainly picture him strutting the halls with a Herbology book, sporting the putrid Hufflepuff robes. “Toots, right? Tilden?” – Tarquin wasn’t amazing at names, but with the matching evidence, he vaguely remembered sniggering behind the Hufflepuffs back for his infamous plant obsession.

Not that he’d mention that now with his life in his hands.

The relief he felt when the cloth was against his shoulder made him sigh, leaning into the other man for support. Tarquin wasn’t a fan of touching strangers, but in this situation, it would be fine. “I was wandering. Contemplating. I ended up in a bit of a fatal situation and I apparated. Ended up splinched and… well…here. Not sure how. Don’t suppose you’ve been in the prophet at all, have you? Grow any drugs in that shrubbery?”

[tmctavish-blog]

Potions & Firewhiskey | Severus & Tarquin

[tmctavish-blog]

@princeinmyownright

Severus nodded approvingly.  He knew many of the other Death Eaters wouldn’t bother with the same sort of riff raff that Severus had access too.  They had the weight and responsibility of keeping up with their own family name and all that nonsense.  Being seen with the wrong sort of person had a negative affect on someone, even in these times of war.  Severus, however, did not have to cater to family loyalty.  Salazar knows the name of Snape held no weight among the wizarding community, and his mother’s transgressions kept him from knowing the privilege of being a Prince.  

“Oh, I’ve no one in particular in mind.  I just assume, as a bartender, you would be privy to overhearing quite a lot.  In some professions, you tend to seem invisible once you’ve served your purpose.  Even in here I tend to overhear the strangest sorts of conversations.”  Severus offered a quick chuckle, sounding almost more like a cough.  “For instance, the other day I learned that a woman who lives just outside of Hogsmede has put up hexes around her garden.  She’s afraid the schoolchildren will ruin it when term starts and they are let loose on the town.”  

Tarquin was very focused, and to the point in his conversations.  It certainly made Severus’s job easier, not having to guess at his motives.  He was quite open with that, easily catering to the implied dark motives hidden in Severus’s words.  It made him a questionable ally, however.  If he so freely confirmed his own intent, would he do the same when asked about the people he worked with?  

“That sounds like quite a… preferable position to hold, locking up at the Leaky Cauldron.  With all the space behind the bar, I’m sure there would be ample room to brew anything of interest.”  Severus pulled a book out from behind the counter.  It held a few advanced potion recipes, ones they didn’t sell unless asked specifically.  Finding one that seemed fitting, he pulled out his wand and duplicated the page, causing it to float to his new conspirator.  

“If you have time today before you get to the Cauldron, pick up the last two ingredients on that list.  I should be able to procure the rest without much trouble.  Once I close shop, I can arrive at the pub.  As soon as business is down, I’ll brew you something to keep you entertained until Sunday.”  He nodded once more. “That’s when the lessons can begin.  Tonight I can evaluate what you already know.” 

His assumption was exactly correct. Although Tarquin’s methods of finding out the local gossip, usually for Rita, were a little more…intrusive than just eavesdropping in the bar. While a bartender was usually an open ear, an easy person to talk to in hope that they wouldn’t care enough to tell anyone, Tarquin was also the bartender that joined them in a drink. With the level of alcohol needed to make Tarquin drunk, he could keep up with them as long as he wanted. Not to mention he could get them incoherent enough to ruin their life just for the joy of watching chaos unfold.

Tarquin laughed at Severus’ statement, nodding his head slightly. “Old woman I take it? Not that I blame her. One of my favourite past times was messing with the locals. All very dramatic, you know? If they didn’t react, they’d get bored. But I suppose if she has something to fear from others. Unfortunately, I don’t get that. Soppy old gits complaining about Muggles or preaching about Muggle rights. Some ex-ministry workers pop in, real low lives. No surprise I’ve never seen you there.”

Just the way he held himself made Tarquin believe that Severus had somewhat more importance than he let on. And although Tarquin was impatient, desperate to find someone who believed in the same views he did other than his younger Carrow friend who in no way hid it, he knew that trust came with time. Sweet Merlin, Tarquin was open about everything, but he wouldn’t trust them with certain things. He was always expecting someone to stab him in the back, literally or figuratively.

“We have the occasional drunk sleeping upstairs in one of the few rooms, but it’s pretty easy to lock them in. Or put barriers on the bottom floor. There’s also the basement where Tom brews the Butterbeer, but the cheap bastard usually just buys it from the Hogs Head so there’s a lot of room down there. And I’m the only one that goes down there to check stock anyway.” It was true. While Tarquin was lazy, he was also relatively ambitious. And while he knew that his past could not get his ambitions far, owning a pub wouldn’t be completely hideous. Learning a business in a rundown pub was a good of a chance as any.

Tarquin nodded then, holding up the piece of paper with the name of the ingredients needed. “I lock up around 3.” He informed him. “But I can kick everyone out earlier if you come sooner than that.” He smiled, in that fake formal way so many people wore nowadays. “I will see you tonight.” He muttered, wandering out of the door and back into Diagon Alley.

[dreamymiina]

【 THE NIGHT IS STILL YOUNG 】

[tmctavish-blog]

@dreamymiina

      That’s my girl.

A part of her wanted to be THAT GIRL. His. After all these years, she was still HIS. Somehow. And time would show, who had changed the MOST. But she was pretty sure he was going to WIN. She couldn’t help but wonder though, why he was so set on telling her. Why not just SHOW her? Again, only a matter of time.

“I’m still not SLEEPING in it, if you are. You can have it all to yourself, McTavish. Maybe some other time– when you’re not acting like A COMPLETE IDIOT,” she snickered. He would always be an idiot, but so was she. It was one of the things she LIKED about him. To be honest, she liked EVERYTHING about him. The old him, at least. She was pretty sure the new one couldn’t bee too bad. And even if he was, she would like him to. Just because it was TARQUIN.

      Her Tarquin.

She arched her brows at him, sceptically. “I don’t look too HEAVY?? Gee, no thanks– I’d rather not end up on my BUTT.” She knew he would have NO TROUBLE lifting her up. Any man could probably lift her 126 pounds off the floor. She was only TEASING him. Not only that, but a part of her would rather not be so CLOSE to him. The other part though, it wanted him to hold her close. Closer than that too, if that was POSSIBLE.

Walking across the room, she THREW herself on the GREEN LEATHER COUCH. It was just the perfect size for her. Pulling one knee up, she didn’t care much about her BARE LEGS. The fabric of his shirt covered everything personal, including her PINK LINGERIE. “What are you trying to say? That you have SKILLS?” She rolled her eyes and snorted. “I guess I’ll just have to take your WORD for it.”

      One part of her did not want to take his word for it.       But his skills would have to WAIT.

“Want to come over with my DRINK?” Not that she was planning on drinking a lot of it. “And while you’re at it– what am I supposed to SLEEP in? I mean, you have a BLANKET or something? I don’t want to CATCH A COLD while I’m here.” The girl wasn’t freezing or anything. She just felt SAFER when she had something to cover her. Something to hold onto.

The words that left his lips, with a silent but obvious possessive tone. She seemed to halt slightly at that, but she didn’t make a comment about it. It was hard to tell if she was dishevelled by the comment, or the quick changing into one of his shirts. His eyes trailed down her body as she wandered over to the leather couch, grazing over her long, smooth legs and he held back a groan.

He didn’t know if she was as oblivious as she was in Hogwarts. He had seen her in many states, other than completely nude, from their younger years, but he doubted that at sixteen, she barely noticed the longing stares and the blatant attraction he had. But she was older and held a lot more wit and wisdom than he remembered.

Even after she spoke, his eyes remained on her, eyes dark with lust. But after a few moments of silence, he coughed, gaze dropping to the ground. He wasn’t embarrassed, not really, just cautious. At Hogwarts, he was just a bad kid, with a tendency to get into fights and duel with anyone he could wind up enough. His addiction was bad, but stable, and he still had things worth living for.

Now, temptation was too much. He had the blood of many on his hands – he was a murderer, a thief, a liar and a cheat. Something that he easily kept hidden and something he never wanted Mina to find out about. If he stared too long, if he let her get to him, she might see through him. And it wouldn’t be something she’d like, of that, he was certain.

“You can take more for my word, Mina. All you have to do is ask.”

He stood, wandering over to the sofa where she was laying. Again, his eyes glossed over her tiny figure in his long shirt. Covering too much, not covering enough – his conflicting thoughts made his eyes quickly raise to her face, where he remembered the unfortunate fact that she had beautiful features as well. He bit onto his lip, passing her the drink. “I’m here to keep you warm.” He teased gently. “Seriously, Lima, take the bed. I’ll sleep out here tonight.”

[tmctavish-blog]

A Moment Of Weakness | Sera

[tmctavish-blog]

@queenofthecrabbes

There was a glimmer of recognition in his eyes and Sera tilted her head to the side, dark eyes that were so much like her father’s, confused. Was he someone from school? A younger student that she’d forgotten about? Or someone from one of those drunken nights out with Marlene, or in the rocky stages at the beginning of her marriage? Maybe he was one of those men she sometimes saw meeting with her father in the garden late some nights. She was sure the senior Selwyn was involved in some not so legal things, but she’d never been stupid enough to ask.

Regardless, this man was far more intoxicated then Seraphina was and clearly needed help. For some reason, she decided to help. Perhaps it was how pitiful he looked, or the way he seemed to know her from somewhere, or maybe drunk Sera was much less of a selfish bitch than sober Sera was. He groaned in response to her question. “Can you speak?” Sera frowned, “Do you know where you are?” The man then decided it was the best time to try and stand. Unsteady, he looked like he might fall and Sera reached out a hand to grab his arm to prevent it. There was nothing quite like dealing with someone much more intoxicated to sober one up instantly. Sera felt her buzz begin to fade and began to grow irritated. If he wanted her help, then he better say what he needed or she would soon go home to her husband and her bed.

He was bleeding, not terribly bad, but certainly more than a scratch. Sera was no healer; she’d never really seen the point in learning any of that. But now that the war was getting bloodier, she thought she might need to, since Ellie would soon be preoccupied with her child. What if something happened to Vin? Sera paled at that thought, he might have thought it was at the sight of the blood, but she was too trapped in her own mind to notice. She took his arm in her small cold hands to get a closer look, the cut was deep and full of dirt and other grime. She instantly regretted her earlier irritation.

“I’m rubbish at healing, sorry. I can try to clean it out for you?” She looked up from his arm to meet unfocused eyes. He was not in any state to refuse help so she took hold of the sleeve he’d just yanked up and tore off the end. Withdrawing her wand, she cleaned the bit of fabric as much as she could before wetting it. She pressed the cloth lightly to the cut, trying to clear away as much blood and dirt as she could. “I’m Seraphina Selwyn, er, well Crabbe, I got married, I was Seraphina Selwyn.” Sera was babbling, something she did when she was drunk or nervous. Frankly she wasn’t even sure he could comprehend what she was saying. “Do you know what happened to you?”

The question was idiotic, and even if Tarquin had the comprehension or ability to move his mouth, he wouldn’t have bothered. Instead, he just pulled his features together to give her a scowl. He had barely managed to get to his feet, only trusted himself to do so because he could at least fall on her. But as he stood, he realised the significant height difference. Usually, Tarquin was self-aware, especially about the fact that he usually towered over everyone. She wouldn’t be able to keep him stable if his intoxication got the better of him. She was tiny.

It was only proven further when her miniature hands reached up to hold his arm. He saw irritation cross her face as she attempted to steady him, an impatience he was sure he would share if he was in her situation, and he tried to regain some control over speech and the movements of his mouth. He did this as she observed the wound on his arm. He didn’t know where he was, but as there was a witch in front of him, he presumed Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley, especially with the dim-lit pubs which he dragged his gaze too after.

Temptation was a bitch, and just as he attempted to drag himself to the pub to make himself worse, he heard the familiar woman speak again.

The irritation her features earlier held seemed to have vanished and had been replaced by a look of apprehension and guilt of some sort. Something he certainly didn’t expect from the daughter of the man he knew. But he watched her, ripping a piece of his shirt, wetting it and attempting to help with his wound. He didn’t even feel it, his whole arm was numb. He wouldn’t be too surprised if he found himself with an infection when he awoke from this state.

She began to babble, merlin knows why, but he could smell the alcohol on her breathe as she fussed around him and put it down to that. Either that, or she really had no idea about healing and was concerned she would just make him worse. He attempted to control his voice again, and by some miracle, managed to regain some normality in his jaw.

“Seraphina, that was it.” He said slowly, his voice hoarse and barely louder than a whisper. He knew the family name, of course, but never cared to learn the first name. It didn’t do well to get close to an employer’s daughter. He already had with his other employer; he decided to keep distance from the other. “Muggle addicts.” He responded to her question. “I-I think I left my wand at the pub.”

[tmctavish-blog]

“Every year we get invited to this shit, and every year we stand here looking miserable and getting wankered. You’d think they’d get the idea by now.”

[ems-vance-deactivated20181031]

“You would think but I do suppose they enjoy torturing us. Though in reality they’re just torturing themselves considering I find it to be my personal mission to cause a much trouble as I can.”

[tmctavish-blog]

“You know just how to make me smile, Emmeline.” He chuckled, lowering his voice somewhat. “What mischief do you suppose we cause tonight? I hear there’s new money here today. Reckon we can make them realise what misery they’ve walked into?”

[tmctavish-blog]

illusion of safety /

[tmctavish-blog]

@trexrowle

Another business meeting turned bar fight turned drunk walk had Thorfinn tired and angry. Old men, fat men, who tried to bargain for a low price were such a bore. At first Thorfinn had considered his job quite entertaining. But the slow and steady onset of boredom had washed over his criminal family enterprise, like it did on everything eventually.

Thorfinn wondered if there was something else, something more profound he was missing out on. He knew what he was good at, he did what was asked of him most of the time. But wasn’t there something he could do for himself alone? Something exquisitely brutal and entertaining perhaps. Something to treat this cold deserted feeling he had inside. He wandered on through the dark lit alleyways and streets, passing drunk muggles and regaining some sense of sobriety. He knocked down a garbage can with his right foot out of sheer spite, and shouted to a lousy homeless man lying on a bench on the other side of the street. He was regaining a sense of time and place at least. A night is just a night, and things always look better in the morning, his mother used to say. Thorfinn usually though things always looked worse in the morning. He dreaded going home but realised that he was supposed to pick up some unicorn skin at essex in the early afternoon next day. ‘’Bloody hell’’ he cursed underneath his breath, and he walked in a bar to use the lavatory. A good moment to throw some water in his face before going home, he was close now anyway. When he walked out he felt the evening air slowly brush his face, gently, it had been a good  night. Though Thorfinn was determined to create a more interesting set of nights in the months to come, killing and selling illegal stuff only got you that much excitement after all. He crossed the street, and another corner when he spotted the figure of a man, or boy, and he felt eyes on him. He was close to the leaky cauldron so he figured it could be a wizard. Thorfinn kept walking at a steady pace, aimed to disarm the stranger of any primal suspicion towards him. He showed his hands and smiled broadly when he came closer. ‘’Good evening, you mind sharing one of your cigarettes?’

Nights like this were something Tarquin usually enjoyed. He was not one who feared any oncoming group of people who happened to be wandering around the same time. It was ridiculously rare that they bothered him, and if they did, he knew his potential. The ones that picked fights in Diagon Alley in the early hours of the morning were usually brutish thugs who didn’t possess a lot of fighting ability other than their fists.

Whilst Tarquin knew his physical strength was moderate, he knew many men outweighed him in that aspect. However, he knew very few who were quicker with a wand.

The random request, with a smile Tarquin couldn’t place made him uneasy. Even with the show of his hands, Tarquin made no effort to hide his brandished wand. He took a long drag of his cigarette, eyeing the gentleman for head to toe.

The clear indication that the stranger meant no harm, despite the genuineness it may have been, made Tarquin believe he was a wizard also, especially with the close location of the Leaky Cauldron. After a few moments of calculated debate, Tarquin trusted his duelling skills enough that he would be able to get his wand out again in a moment’s notice.

He put his wand back in his back pocket, and then dove into the other one to take out a packet of cigarettes. He balanced his already lit cigarette between his lips as he pulled another out of the packet. He held it out for the stranger, before reaching into his other pocket to pull out a lighter and chucking it towards him too. He leant against the wall, taking the cigarette from between his lips after another long inhale of his addiction.

“Strange.” Tarquin said emotionlessly. “You just hanging around waiting for another smoker to pass you so you get a hit? Could hit up a local shop, all open late, ain’t they?” – Without guarantee that this man was a wizard, he struggled not to use the word ‘Muggle shop’ instead of local. He gave somewhat of a smile, but he could scarcely disguise his grimaces nowadays.

[horror-memes]

Headcanon Memories.

[riddlesregime-ops]

SEND A SYMBOL FOR A HEADCANON MEMORY! ✘ - A bad or illegal memory. ❁ - A happy memory. ☁ - A childhood memory. ☠ - A dreadful or painful memory. ❤ - A romance or relationship memory. ♒ - A disturbing memory. ☹ - A sad or remorseful memory. ☺ - A unforgettable memory. ☎ - A memory of their family or parents. ✎ - A school or educational memory. ♨ - A confused or vague memory. ★ - An embarrassing memory.

[tmctavish-blog]

A Moment Of Weakness | Rita

[tmctavish-blog]

@skeeterbeatle

Her fingers skipped along his skin, stilled, listening to the words coming from his mouth. She had to tuck her head in closer to keep him from seeing her face, from the surprise and astonishment and everything she couldn’t quite name flashing at a rapid-fire through her mind, across her eyes. It was merely an instant, a moment in time, but she sighed into his skin and was grateful that, for once, he’d allowed her this moment of reprieve. Her breathing was easier now, more controlled, and the shaking, the shaking had subsided for the most part.

A small laugh escaped from between her lips, then, and she had to marvel at that, his correction of her own view of herself. Whether it was a by-product of her father or simply the thoughts that lurked just beneath the surface, Rita had never believed herself to have a strength, not in this. It was the one thing she hid from the life she had created, buried away as deeply as she could and only listened to the ridiculing voice in her head, the one that hissed at her to r e m e m b e r it all when she was drunk and lonely without someone there.  

And she did. Hating herself for it, because it had taken so long to forget. And yet, here she was, curled into the arms of a man who she ridiculed about his past, simply because she could, spilling out one of her most painful demons.

That cruelty did not deserve the trust he had so freely admitted to.

She nodded into his shoulder at the explanation of her chosen target, knew by the way he’d paused over the names that there was more there than what he had claimed.

“Nothing just flows well, Tarquin,” she whispered quietly, continuing to nudge her way along his skin, fingers tracing the outline of the flower on his shoulder. “Not with you. I-” Rita sighed again, hands stilling on the tattoo she’d been tracing just a second ago. She put on a smirk for him, though the expression fell short, couldn’t reach her eyes, not yet. But she’d try.

“What’s this one then? A self-portrait? Very fitting.”

He was glad when he felt her calm. With the shaking and deep panicked inhales she had awoken too, she now barely shivered, and her breathing had regained some normality. He smiled against her hair as he heard the unsatisfactory tone in her voice as he hadn't informed her the true meaning of his tattoo. He hadn't lied, not really. He just hadn't told her what the last month symbolised. It wasn't something he would say lightly, especially with why she had just woken up in such a panic. She compared him to her father so much, he didn't want to provide further evidence on the similarities they shared.

He moved his head back, tilting to see which tattoo she was talking about. She was looking at the pansy on his shoulder, and he chuckled at her joke. “Obviously.” He replied. “No, I don't remember that one. Probably resembles some chick I went out with once, but she clearly wasn't important enough for me to remember other than some ink on my skin.”

Her sudden fascination with the ridiculous amount of drawings on his skin, despite the fact that she'd certainly seen them all before, slightly panicked him. He was covered in so many, no one ever asked the meaning of them. As Amycus had so politely put it, the ink was fitting for a man ready for prison. Now she was asking questions that he wasn't sure he wanted to answer. His main issue was whether he would bite the bullet and show her one that he had gotten one night in his usual intoxicated state, and had attempt to hide ever since.

He managed to untangle himself from the embrace they had found in the means of comfort to reach for his wand on his bedside table. He moved back quick enough once he grasped it, only changing their original position slightly so she had a clear view of his forearm and wrist. A concealment charm, which he put on nearly everyday for his own sanity, was removed, revealing a wizarding tattoo.

Moving in a loop, was a quill. It traced along his skin, leaving one word in its wake, only to backtrack, remove it, and write it all over again. It was in beautiful cursive handwriting, something Tarquin certainly possessed. And then name was ever so familiar – Rita.

“Looks like you hold some importance, eh?”

[tmctavish-blog]

Amycus & Tarquin | Enlightenment

[tmctavish-blog]

@amycuswants

Muscles tight from lack of movement, Amycus rolled his shoulders and stretched as best he was able while still remaining sprawled. He rolled his eyes and ran his fingers through the offending hair, its usual softness lost under lack of care. Despite everything he had to admit- it was pretty fucking gross. A tight smile pulled at his mouth, utterly unworried about the distant and near fantastical threat of Azkaban, and he waved a dismissive hand in the air. “You’d be fine.” Amycus declared. “Look, you’ve already got the grotty tattoos for it and all.”

His unwilling smile stretched into something more, pleased with himself and very nearly letting a laugh slip out before he caught and muffled it with a grunt as he stretched again, spine arched and extended.

Instinct had Amycus ready to be lighthearted. To live just in this moment, shallow and dishonest, but the sick churn still sat heavy in his stomach keeping him locked into a bigger picture he tried so hard to shut out. Now. Now was easy. It was when he started analyzing the now and letting the before and the next and the might be’s slip into it that things got dark and difficult. His relationship with Tarquin (old friend. childhood quasi-hero.) sometimes sat ambivalently on the edges of what Amycus wanted to be and what he really was. What he wanted people to think he was.

Amycus accepted the cigarette without thanks, scrubbing harshly at his face and trying to wipe away the dazed sleepy feeling he had been sunk in. “Pfft. Ugly? Look who’s come crawling into whose bed.” Dropping the back on his hand onto Tarquin’s shoulder in a hit without any real leverage. “Prick.

“She thinks she should  get married.” He blurted without preamble, determined to get the words out there before he could give into the want of burying it behind insults and nicotine. Pressing fingertips hard against his eyelids, focusing on keeping his tone neutral, Amycus continued, “ And I just can’t stand, I fucking can’t stand, the idea of her changing her name and there not being a single ‘Carrow’ left I don’t hate. And she just- she just drops her decision in my lap like it’s nothing.” That was the worst bit. That she acted like he wasn’t supposed to care. Like he shouldn’t be upset.

“Call this me ‘processing’.”

Tarquin looked down at his tattoos and pulled a mock look of offence. Granted, nearly every single one of them he'd gotten when he was absolutely plastered, and Amycus knew that, but that certainly didn't give him permission to make a comment about it. Tarquin wasn't above pinning his younger friend down and forcing him to get one of those 'grotty tattoos' he'd just insulted.

“You're welcome.” Tarquin muttered sarcastically as Amycus snatched cigarette, but his disgruntled expression switched immediately as he spoke. He laughed, shoving him back gently. “What can I say? I have a fetish for so called men who can't control their feelings. I thought crawling into your bed was the only way to show you how much I wanted you. Please love me, oh baby, oh baby.” He remarked with very little emotion.

He knew Amycus would understand the joke, but it was funny to mess around every now and again.

When Amycus told Tarquin his reason for basically avoiding him for the last month, Tarquin raised his eyebrows, taking a long drag from his cigarette to try and comprehend why this would bother him so much. While he knew the Carrow twins were very twisted, Amycus' jealousy and downright obsession with the woman sometimes startled him. Incest, or at least ridiculously close siblings were not uncommon. It was hard to keep blood pure when there was hardly any left that weren't related.

Pureblood was a dying race, despite how much they didn't want to believe it. Even Tarquin was in denial, despite the fact that one of his favourite people was a half-blood

“She should get married to me. She's hot.” Tarquin teased. He didn't mean it, he couldn't see Alecto as anything other than his best friends sister. But it was nice to prod at Amycus, especially when he was in a foul mood.

“Did you think she'd be a Carrow forever?” Tarquin questioned. “Even with the independence she has, Pureblood society dictates she marry another Pureblood to carry on the lineage. As you will be expected to get married and carry on the Carrow surname. It's just what's expected of us.” - Tarquin knew that that was out of the question for him now. No one wanted to be associated with the surname McTavish. Even if they believed in what his father did, hiding their alliance would be a little more tricky. Tarquin, and his mother, hoped the surname died with him.

“Amy, your infatuation is ruling your logic. Marriage is no abrupt mean to stop… whatever bond you two share. Marriage is simply a pact to birth a Pureblood heir. At the very least you can certainly go behind her partners back.” He shrugged it off, taking another long drag. “And you can always come out and get fucked with me. Pick up a nice woman… or man, whatever you fancy.”