head-under-water

[head-under-water]

the gentleman.

“Innit that old man on the front of the Prophet?” “Yeah, yeah I fink it is. Fuckin’ relic walkin’ around like his kind are still in charge.” “Not even botherin’ to hide is fuckin’ face. Embrassin’ I tell ya. Oughta show him wha’ a mistake that is.”

“And Borgin and Burkes was supposed to be a peaceful establishment…” Cetus shifted his attention to the crone behind the counter, “You allow this riff raff?” She said nothing. Instead she stared off through cataract-ridden eyes. Cetus shrugged and pivoted to face the hooligans.

The rat pack before him couldn’t have had an average age higher than 18, but their intelligence level, Cetus concluded, was at most half of that. Licking their lips with slack jaws, these pups were clearly the runts of their litters. “Righ’ Mulciber. You and the other old guard aren’t welcome no more.” This one, it appeared, was the leader. Made sense to Cetus as he was the thickest both in stature and mental capability.

Nevertheless, his stupid flash of testosterone triggered a grin on his old, scarred face. A reaction that in turn caused the head troll to draw his wand. Cetus glanced back at the old woman. “Do you see this? He’s threatening me. Oh gold star for you, my boy. Gold star!” He returned to the little rapscallions and laced his fingers together. “Come on, come on now,” he coaxed in overly nurturing tone, “hurl another insult as well. I can tell you need practice, but I know you can do it. I need some old fashioned back and forth, what have you got for me?”

The mood, however, instantly shifted the moment a weakly muttered curse whizzed past his head. Cetus simply flicked his melon to the side while slowly rotating to face a now-quivering teenager who still had either the stupidity or audacity to keep his wand pointed towards the older man. “Now,” Cetus began with his arms held out as if he meant to embrace the goon, “that was disappointing. Go again. Come on. Really put some effort in.” The others were hyping him up, doing their best to encourage their friend. But all the targeted member could do was lob an even weaker curse at the former death eater to which Cetus deflected with ease then subsequently manifested a counter attack that sent a vase flying at the boy’s head. One after the other, each member of this gang was walloped with items from the shop until they were completely disarmed and defeated.

With all the young bucks on the ground, Cetus straightened his coat and looked about. “You all are an embarrassment to this establishment and yourselves. Children squabble. Men fight with their minds well before raising their wands.” He pulled out coin from his pocket and placed a few galleons onto the counter where the old woman still sat. “For the damages, my dear,” he crooned quietly before beginning his trek towards the door. Yet before he opened it, Cetus turned around and faced his attackers one last time to bestow some aged advice. “The real battle will always be up here,” he pointed to his temple, “in the gray. Good day, lads.”

#// head under water #d r a b b l e

[head-under-water]

glorious purpose

Did you ever pay attention to your own heartbeat? Sure it was always there to lull you to sleep or pass the time when you’re bored, but have you ever, truly paid attention to it? The hollow thumping, the constant rhythm that indicated to both yourself and others that life coursed through your veins. A sound that flooded your ears when you were nervous or felt so strained when you were ill. Yes. THAT is the sound, the only sound, Cetus in this moment could hear. There was nothing to see, nothing to feel, nothing to experience save for that thundering, persistent heartbeat.

Some time ago, he wasn’t quite sure when, a force well beyond his reckoning catapulted him across the lab. His back slammed against a bookcase and the base of his rather resilient skull collided directly with a corner of one of the shelves thus cutting off his supply to consciousness. The essence of it seemed filled with anger and a rage whose depths Cetus couldn’t even begin to understand. And while he wallowed in the darkness, his body in recover mode, the residual energy affected the ever-present staccato of his heart. It was quick, shallow, not its normal strong pulse. However, such powerful, ethereal energy could have such intense effects on one’s person, so this wasn’t entirely surprising.

Cetus…Cetus wake up. He’s gone for now, but I need you to wake up.

From far away the voice trickled through the void. It was young, familiar, but hardened around the edges; too mature for its age. Reaching out, somehow it managed to take hold of Cetus and pull him out of that darkness. Lids, heavy, opened and vision slowly returned to him. The drumming in his chest remained present, in fact it was damn near drowning out any other sound as he came too. Yet as all his senses regained some semblance of function, it quieted only to be quickly replaced by an electric throbbing from the back of his skull. If he could, Cetus would’ve swapped them back that very instant.

With a hand cupping the back of his head, finally Cetus’ legs found their strength and lifted him off the ground. He blinked over and over until the specter before him, not the enraged one, but one far more familiar to him, came into focus. “Tom,” he breathed, large pearls shining under a weary smile. “I thought I lost you to him.”

The spectre mirrored the expression and shook his head. An unruly mess of dark brown tresses danced about from the gesture. Hard to believe that he and Cetus’ master were one in the same. At times calling him by his birth name gave him pause for they’d been introduced in a much more formal manner on another plane. But Cetus had grown quite fond of him. “He’s gone back to stroking the inside of the gem for now, but if you don’t close the spell, he will be back. Ruin all our hard work,” the spectre warned, floating closer to Cetus.

A studious stare hovered down below the spectre whose ghostly trail tethered him to the small piece of jewelry below. His mission. His purpose. This cursed object was bestowed upon him by his Lord to cleanse it of the very essence that’d most definitely concussed him. The boy, however, was a pleasant surprise. Aiding Cetus in his efforts however he could. A shadow of the Dark Lord before all of his innocence was lost perhaps? Did he ever have it to begin with? Questions like these were distractions and Cetus knew this so he didn’t dwell on them long.

Instead he swerved around Tom and picked up his wand. The incantation used angered the other spirit to the point it fed upon its own rage to materialize, but it was the only thing Cetus knew to rid the object of it. He exhaled desperately, the dread crackling inside of him, a dual thunder of both pain and his heart suffocated his hearing. “Cetus… Cetus you must hurry. He senses it.” There was fear in Tom’s voice. Who was this other spirit to him? What kind of hold did he have to cause his Lord to tremble?

Cetus steeled himself and quickly glanced around him. Black salt still lined the door and windows so if he was successful, the malignant energy could not leave the room. The candles he’d initially lit were still burning, but very low, so he had little time to act. And finally, the black little poppet he made to harness the successfully banished spirit was ready for its new inhabitant. But as soon as the words began to leave his lips, Cetus’ realized that his intentions were not as strong as he needed them to be. Tom disappeared and once again, a violent glow emanated from the ring on his table. A raspy bellow smothered any other sound and darkness engulfed the room.

Not worthy…not worthy…NOT WORTHY!

Cetus continued to utter the incantation, the spirit’s force gradually pushing him back, filling the room with its own presence rather than a single blast like before. It meant to break Cetus this time from the inside out. Tear apart his own resolve and feed off his fear. Should’ve stuck with the first tactic… Realizing this, Cetus’ confidence actually grew and soon he gained the upper hand. The spirit slowly retreated and Cetus’ hubris was unfoundedly large. His incantations loud and clear while his adversary groaned in agony. I’ve got him! I’ve got him! he thought to himself just before the ring began to shake. Cetus’ eyes widened. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen this today.

All he managed to get out was a desperate Oh bugger! before another blast sent him into the exact same shelf. Lights immediately put out once again. Only the steady, beautiful drumming of his heartbeat remained while Cetus returned to the void of his failure.

#d r a b b l e #// head under water #// the dark lord

[head-under-water]

revelations.

How strange that I should find myself in a cell once again after all these years… Perhaps it’s because this is where I belong. I never really knew how to function without being within some sort of confinement, really. Whether it be Voldemort, Azkaban, even being constantly on the run provided restrictions of its own. A code to abide by. Perhaps that’s why I came back to England again and cursed Amelia Bones’ grave. I know where I belong. I understand the true nature of humanity and my place in it while those around me, who pursue me, fight and breathe under the guide that they’re working towards something more liberating.

Humans were never so free than the time we were scavenging, living in caves and hunting every day for the chance that we’d survive just one more day.

Now to be back here. A third time. It’s almost like a homecoming except someone changed the curtains to something tawdry. The halls are patrolled by fleshy, human do-gooders with wands instead of the ethereal, haunting reverence of the dementors. I wonder if the Ministry thinks this makes Azkaban more humane… It’s still a rock in the middle of the sea with bone chilling drafts and endless sense of dread. I hear the Aurors talking to each other at night trying to pass the time. The young ones earning their stripes, dreaming of ways they will make their mark on the world like Alastor or even the Weasley girl.

Ginerva Weasley — another regrettable mark on my otherwise exciting resume.

I suppose that was the beginning of the end. The shifting from one set of confines to another. Subconsciously, I believe it was a cry to come back no matter how content I was in Prague. I am a truly evil man. No matter what I try to pretend to be. Great tragedy never plagued me so when I tried to be otherwise. My son, Ludo… my wife’s betrayal. All of these things stabbed me with the sting of their poison simply because I tried to be a good man I am not. Nor will I ever be.

We are destined to remain in the confines set out before us. Therefore I allowed myself to be caught. I am simply tired of running.

I find peace in the solitude. Nearly everyone I’ve ever cared to be around has either perished or abandoned me in some way. Being alone was never an issue for me as it was for others who found themselves in my position. I remember the screams at night in Azkaban, how they harmonized with the constant smacking of the waves and dementor moans. That place would break them sooner rather than later. Even when the escape happened, the ghouls who left were mere husks of the so-called prominent knights they’d been when they arrived. The thing that no one wants to admit is that most people want things to happen to them. We tell each other lies about the fight for free will and independence, but we don’t really want that. We want to be told how to live and then die when we’re not looking.

#// head under water #d r a b b l e

[head-under-water]

concerto.

A sharp screech cut through the empty dormitory. An exasperated sigh followed. The soft movements trailed behind as Cetus placed the instrument in his lap and rested the bow on top. What a way to spend his birthday. Alone. Frustrated with himself. Today was supposed to be a day of celebration. Instead he was miserable and messing up!

Having a birthday in March was always a gamble. The weather in flux, unsure of whether it would bless him with a mild spring day or the last blistery blows of winter still clinging to life before its big sleep. This year, true to the aesthetic of the times, was the latter. Overcast and violent winds made the surface of The Great Lake dance around off in the distance beyond the swaying yellowed grass and tree tops. It was almost beautiful, though. The finale of an excellent performance. The sight of it through the narrow dungeon window was a melancholy type of inspiration, but enough to convince Cetus to lift the violin to his shoulder once more.

Better to practice horridly by oneself than contaminate one’s well being with horrid company on one’s birthday.

Cetus inhaled, rejuvenating his soul with fresh oxygen then expelling the negativity from this morning that no doubt had an effect on his playing. The argument with Marcus. The underhanded comments from Lucille. Alek nowhere to be found. His squad, his foundation, was cracked, and therefore his own inner light was dimmed. There was only one form of consolation. Horsehair met the strings and the sound that emanated from the friction was far more pleasant than its immediate predecessor. 

The flow of notes quickly returned to him. 

Soon enough Cetus found himself lost in the slow, haunting melody whose notes chained together fluidly to form a heavy tale, symbolizing his own woe. Quickly entranced, he didn’t even realize the dormitory door opening behind him nor the soft padding of footsteps until they rounded the bed. The whole experience snapped Cetus from his concentration and once again, that sharp screech shot through the room.

“Where have you been all day?” Cetus said, his eyes following the other boy as he sat down on the edge of the bed to the left to his own. Cornsilk tendrils fell out of place when the other simply shrugged in response. It seems the melancholy wasn’t just in the music today.

Cetus swallowed. He felt guilty holding the instrument in his hands when the other could not any longer. Sea-colored hues drifted down to the crooked knuckles that once were so elegant and gifted with the very tool Cetus cradled. He exhaled then shifted to return the violin to its case, but one of those warped hands quickly shot out and gently clasped his forearm. “Please play something…”

The request gave Cetus pause. The bow clicked lightly as the hard side came into contact with the mahogany body of the violin. It was in an unstable hold, but that was quickly remedied when Cetus returned it to his lap. “Okay, Cor. I’ll play for you.” His other hand now free, he patted the paw on his forearm then guided it back to its owner’s lap so he could take the instrument up in the proper manner.

Lids closed over those stormy eyes and Cetus touched bow to string once more. A painstaking melody resumed and he was quickly lost in the act. Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto  spilt forth and underneath the eerie refrain, hushed sniffles kept stifled emotions at bay. 

The five or so minutes passed and the Concerto came to a close. Cetus rested the violin on his bed then shifted to sit next to his friend. He said nothing. Instead he brought the other boy into an embrace. “All you need to do is ask,” he whispered to which the other nodded. Cetus let him go then went to put the instrument to bed. 

#// head under water #D r a b b l e #//corban tag

[head-under-water]

they say taupe is very soothing; pt. 1

Off in the distance boat horns blared. The hum of music mixed with elevated chatter. The air was buzzing. A swell of noise swirled into the cozy bedroom of the rented yacht through a crack in the window Cetus insisted upon sleeping with because the cabin air was too stuffy. With his eyes still closed, Cetus reached out to Ludo’s side of the bed to find it cooled down and unoccupied. An eye opened, visually confirming that the other man truly was not there, and with a groan, Cetus surrendered himself to the act of waking up.

He’d gotten used to the charade of being a kept man — the rich queen with the tiny dog and beefy lover on his arm. Giving off the semblance he had too much money to care what others thought of him when, in fact, what others thought of them was crucial. If things did not go well in Monaco, both he and Ludo would be grateful to escape with nothing more than their lives and the clothes on their backs. One more scam. They needed one more and then they could leave this time zone entirely and start their life anew and aplenty.

The bed creaked under his weight as he shifted to sit and dragged his legs over the side of the bed. The movement of it all was enough to wake Goliath in all her sleepy glory at the foot of the bed. Out of the corner of his eye, Cetus saw a mass of golden, furry glory emerge from the darkness of the sheets. “I see you slept in as well,” he commented coyly, his voice still laced with sleep. Cetus reached out and stroked the fur atop her head flat a few times then mustered the will to stand. Since it seemed Ludo already made his way to the Monte Carlo to place his bets, Cetus had to get ready in double time. Everything needed to go according to plan.

With a wave of his hand, a lavender suit emerged from the closet and laid itself on the unmade bed while Cetus stretched. Breathing was timed as his body fully awoke and after one final exhale, he turned to his outfit and slipped it on meticulously. Every wrinkle smoothed under his palm and his collar folded crisply. He twisted the ring on his pinky in a good luck ritual then shifted over to the small bureau and adorned the inside of his blazer with his essentials: wand, laughing potion and talismans. Couldn’t have any unwanted spirits thwarting their efforts today.

Little clicks followed him to the en suite and with the same precision, Cetus styled his hair while Miss Goliath watched intently. “Yes my darling, we have a busy day today. Have to look the part.” Cetus stared hard at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t sure why nerves were scratching at his core. Perhaps because the stakes were so high. Perhaps because true and untainted happiness were just within his grasp. Or perhaps it was simply because he didn’t want to disappoint Ludo again. Sensing Cetus’ slight distress Goliath yipped, causing him to break away from the mirror. Cetus looked down at her lovingly, exhaled, then picked the princess up and exited the entire master suite.

His eyes squinted upon stepping through the door and being bombarded by sunlight. A perfect day for the race’s start and under any other circumstances, Cetus might’ve actually enjoyed himself. But there was business to handle. After slipping Goliath’s harness on, he stepped off the back of the boat and onto the dock.

“

Oh Julian! I’m so happy I’ve run into you!

”

Cetus barely got his legs steady beneath him before that raspy voice called out from behind him. It was no random happenstance that Ludo and Cetus docked their rented yacht here. A certain section of the world’s elite did the same. All here to display their wealth and indulge while the race and its festivities ensue. This particular one, Eleanor Tate, was middle aged, American nouveau-riche whose husband made a decent fortune doing something called a fast food chain. She always had this underlying smell of canola oil to her, but her grubby hands were useful. Her entire approach to wealth only justified to Cetus that ripping her and her friends off was a righteous act. As she stepped off her yacht, christened Knot Stolen, her obnoxiously colored shawl nearly blinded her as the breeze blew it in her face.

“Eleanor, dearest,” Cetus said with a small, curled grin and an emphasis on his posh accent. “Now why would you be happy to see me, I wonder…”

“Oh Julian,” the woman was already breathless as she brazenly took Cetus’ unoccupied hand with both of her own. “Join Carl and I at the Monte Carlo. Mr. Epstein has just the most perfect viewing spot reserved and it would be divine to have you there. Us kept ladies must keep each other company.”

Cetus managed to fake a rather convincing smile to make it seem as if he was flattered. That he was not, but he was happy for a different reason. He knew opportunity when she knocked and right now she was banging thunderously on the door. “Of course! As long as my lovely princess can join us as well.” Eleanor’s response was once of giddiness and redneck obnoxiousness. “Hm… excellent.” Cetus narrowed his gaze as he went to follow Eleanor and smirked to himself. He couldn’t wait to rob all of these people blind.

#//ludus #D r a b b l e #// head under water #//taupe is a basic b!tch

[head-under-water]

push and pull

Earth. It pulsed beneath Cetus’ cheek. He could feel its pulse under the floorboards tick-tick-ticking away like the tell tale heart. Her knee was boney between his shoulder blades, pressing him further against the unforgiving pine beneath him. “You’re vile. Wretched.” He felt her breath on his ear, she was breaking her rules getting close to him like this. He pushed up against her. He knew how much she loathed resistance. She was used to her playthings begging, sobbing. Lesser beings who knew not what true pain was. But Cetus bathed himself in it for most of his life. This woman, well, she was simply making it enjoyable.

Out of defiance, he curled his spine even deeper, egging her on with his body. “Says the one who can’t keep her claws off of me.” He reveled in his retort. He wanted to poke and prod, see if she would be worthy. Yet his gloating blinded him. She was up with a cat-like speed and the pain came just as swift. The loud crack, the warm and reddening flesh — Cetus groaned, crooned, grinned. Glancing over his shoulder at her seething. Her lip snarled over canines and he shivered at the sight of it, just catching a glimpse of her glory before she shoved his face back on the floor, cutting his cheek against a knot in one of the planks.

“Insufferable little worm.” She sounded exhausted and disappointment threatened to shroud the aching pleasure pressing against his stomach. “I did not give you permission to speak,” she hissed before standing upright once more, pressing the sole of her stiletto directly on the sore flesh she’d just assaulted. Cetus whined, fingers curling into fists. Merlin he couldn’t stand it! But to give in so soon? No. She had to earn it. So he bucked her off and flipped over, exposing himself entirely to her whilst raising up onto his elbows, appearing to relax. Her disdain for him was unmistakable. Her need to own him undeniable.

But she surprised him, lured him in further using curiosity. She did not pounce. Instead she retreated to her chair, languidly lounging atop. And like the hooked fish he was, Cetus followed her to it, perched at her feet with an eyebrow raised. “Am I angry with you?” she inquired, “Or am I not?” Gesturing for him to stand, Cetus, surprisingly, obeyed. He groaned softly, took a second, then shook his head immediately falling into her trap without realizing it. Before he could react, she flicked her wand and swept his feet out from under him. Like a misbehaving boy, she laid him over her lap and released a torrent of blows that had him crying out instantly.

They came faster and faster, tears building up in his eyes all while his thighs pressed harder together in hopes of relieving that aching throbbing some. He shut his eyes, tears sneaking out from the pressure. “Please, please…” he whimpered, daring to look up at that goddess who was quickly conquering his rebellion. Her strikes shifted to the backs of his thighs. He’d lost count of how many, he only knew that he no longer had the will to anger her. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

Then, out of nowhere, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and craned him up so that her lips, once again, graced the shell of his ear. “Right now, you belong to me and you will learn to please me in all things. You will not defy me. Is this clear to you? Do you understand?” He nodded, exhausted, flesh inflamed. Again, her movements were too quick for him to counter, but he wouldn’t want to even if he could. His back was on the pine planks again, but this time she was atop him in a new manner. Her legs nestled him between them and she took him inside of her in a way that stole his breath.

Shaking hands dared to grip her hips and she let them, lost in her own rhythm as she sheathed him in her velvety warmth over and over again. A palm on his sternum steadied her increasingly thrash movements, each wave coaxing his hips to meet hers. Guttural moans unleashed, tension wound tighter and tighter until finally — finally! — a wave of release flooded over the two. Then, she collapsed, keeping him inside of her while she nestled her face in his neck. Cetus’ body was singing, sore and pulsing with relief. He swallowed dryly, trying to catch his breath while she stroked his hair. The whiplash in his mind left his ears ringing. “You have conquered me just as I have conquered you,” she whispered breathlessly in his ear, letting those soothing words marinate before lifting herself just high enough to look down at him, “but do not arouse my anger again. I don’t know what I would do if you did.”

Cetus nodded, his exhales shaking. She stroked his hair one last time before disconnecting their bodies. As if she hadn’t skipped a beat, she walked back over to her chair and dressed. Only when she was finished did she flick her wand and send Cetus’ clothes over to him. “I will leave you to your thoughts,” was all she said before leaving him in the middle of her room with the walls still spinning around him.

#// head under water #d r a b b l e #// little miss perfect

[head-under-water]

i’m in a box

Bastille Day 1998 — Paris.

Laughter cascaded over the crowd like a tsunami crashing on a shore. One by one they fell victim to it. Clutching their bellies, wiping tears from their eyes all due to the spritely mime at the center of their makeshift circle. The look on his silent face was exaggerated in an almost cartoonish, but charming way. An art form threatened to fade into obscurity, clinging to life through the black and white facial paint. He had to do his best, of course, because drawing a large crowd was all part of the plan.

Prancing about the circle, the mime dramatically leapt over imaginary hurdles. Bright red and white stripes moved with his body beautifully, curving exquisitely, keeping up with the twists and turns effortlessly. It made the mime thankful that he’d skimmed the ensemble from a more seasoned performer. One with taste versus some cheap scalper looking to make a quick knut off cheap parlor tricks. Poor lad wouldn’t be making his usual take this year, but as far as the new owner was concerned, everyone had to make sacrifices. Today just happened to be his turn and as this newly created mime elicited cheers and more laughter from his growing crowd, he was quite thankful to that unfortunate soul.

Through the crowd, a man with swagger and his arm draped around a not-so-terrible-looking woman began to part the outer rings of the crowd. Beyond the children hopping up on their toes, the drunken groups of friends and canoodling couples did the pair make their way. The man was laying on the charm, sweet and thick, but such things came natural to him. This the mime knew because he knew the man. He was supposed to bring the not-so-terrible-looking woman right here at this very time! She was a dangerous one, she was, but one to be handled delicately otherwise the mime and the man would be brought back to their homeland in irons. And oh did the mime love the punctuality!

Had the circumstances been different, had they not needed to do something different, perhaps the mime and the man could enjoy the festivities around them. After all, the music, the drink, the fireworks all around them in the city of love — it was a scene plucked from the very romance novels the mime’s mother used to read. Alas, instead the mime turned his attention to the not-so-terrible-looking woman who looked at him with a strange sense of deja vu. Her eyes struggled to focus on him while the man whispered something in her ear, but it wasn’t sweet nothings that had her focus off kilter.

A dramatic flair of the wrist, an arm firing up in the air, the wordless performer extended a hand to the not-so-terrible-looking woman. Without waiting for a word, he took hers and spun her from the arms of the man and into the cozy circle surrounded with the joy of the crowd. At first she tittered with amusement. The mime’s steps were quick and fleet. The waltz he roped her into made them seem they were floating on air. But quickly the faces around them blurred unnaturally and the speed with which he spun her around and around had to her blinking, straining to hang onto some mental anchor despite the walls closing in.

A quick step here, there, here, there then poof!. The mime opened his palm to her mid spin and blew something in her face. The crowd roared with applause before another cloud appeared from the mime’s palm, a loud crack accompanying the blinding effect. When the smoke dissipated, a collective gasp swept the group. The mime and the man were gone and the not-so-terrible-looking woman lay slumped on the cobblestone. Many checked their pockets to see if they’d been robbed, some left, and only two moved forward to check on the not-so-terrible-looking woman. But by the time anyone thought to look for the mime and the man, they were long gone.

The mime and the man were just beyond the festivities now, breathless from their escape. The man looked on with concern, but the mime was elated. An exaggerated smile curled his painted lips. He waited for the man to crack and crack he did. His stare became hooked on the mime who kept on smiling, teeth now appearing behind black borders. “This is a good escape,” he said, breaking the barrier of silence before slipping his hand in the man’s and pulling him close.

#//ludus #// head under water #D r a b b l e

[head-under-water]

legacy - mirror of erised

I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hour to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my world.

Dust puffed up in choking clouds as a canvas cover fell to the floor, the great trickster beneath waking after a long slumber. At first that placid pane reflected a face weathered by time and tragedy — loneliness and vengeance. Divots in pale flesh, once naturally golden and firm, revealed the husk of a man who’d yearned for something more than this shell of a life.

A calm reflection which showed him who he really was.

But as the old man continued to gaze, that too-truthful image faded to something he hadn’t let permeate his mind in decades. The eyes he viewed it through were his own yes, but a sense they held oh so many years ago. He was watching a trio of boys run through the field, grass tickling their fingers, makeshift wands in their hands. Their innocence suffocated him. Their laughter, deafening.

Eridanus, wait for your brother, eh?

A voice long since faded to the annals of the old man’s life boomed from behind his shoulder. Yet the man was too afraid to look. That shadow’s face would be frozen in time no doubt, somewhere between old age and youth, aged perfectly by a combination of high stake bets and a warm bed.

Little bugger doesn’t know how to slow down. Should put him on the pitch, watcha think?

The old man’s lip began to quiver and it was sucked in between his brittle teeth as hand reached out to the glass. He nodded to the apparition’s inquiry, sniffing as he did so. But the vision before him began to fade. The boys continued onto the horizon and pillar behind him faded into the abyss. With creaky joints and sore digits, the man pulled the heavy canvas from the floor. He remembered that glass was a trickster and it would tell him lies.

For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.

#D r a b b l e #//ludus #// head under water

[head-under-water]

disturbia.

She hung there from the ropes, suspended in air, head dropped so low the her chin touched her chest. She’d gotten herself into a right old mess, but she was too weak to fight. She simply accepted her predicament, but also allowed her esteem to be beaten down by it. Cetus gazed upon the doe with a disappointed expression hidden underneath the mask and shadows. Such potential, this one. They’d conversed for weeks. She’d solved the soft tosses, then the more intricate puzzles. But today, all that hope, all that promise disappeared in a puddle of sweat and other excrements dripping from the tips of her toes.

A sharp breath conveyed the let down she’d become and that soft message caused her to stir, whimper, limply attempt to push against the restraints. Yet he didn’t move. Cetus, instead, continued to watch. Curiosity getting the better of him. He could faintly hear the music from the club just beyond their room, but blocked it out with ease. And eyebrow raised — perhaps she’d work through it after all! Solve the riddle before her… his senses heightened in anticipation. Teeth sank into his bottom lip, watching the cogs of her exhausted brain attempt to turn together. His muscles contracted, his toes curled, but all that build up quickly fell apart when she began to cry pathetically.

But why, why would you do this?

“Because I can, darling. What about that don’t you understand?” He took a step forward, arms folded, one forearm angled upward so fingers could support his chin. “Such a tragedy…” His head tilted as fingertips trailed over her shuddering features. She shivered, but whether she wished to actually recoil, Cetus could not be sure. “You knew what this was when you agreed to it. You continued on and on without complaint, but as soon as an actual challenge presented itself, you failed.” He spoke so gently, each word caressing her soul while poisoning her ego. “I’m going to leave you here. Hopefully you prove me wrong. If not — well — you wouldn’t be the first corpse they clean up here.”

She began to scream, pressing against the ropes in Cetus’ direction as he headed towards the door. Crying, begging, pleading, but none of her wails gave him pause let alone convince him to turn around. A wave of music and pulsating lights poured over him the moment he pulled the knob, drowning out whatever nonsense she spewed in his direction. It closed softly behind him and disappeared into the wall. No one would even know she was there. It didn’t matter. She was nothing.

Ambience surrounded him with humidity and vibrations. Freaks of all natures moved about in their designated corners. That’s what Cetus liked about this establishment — why he kept coming back to it. There was an understanding. Leave me to mine and I won’t bother you with yours… An open privacy that ended with a fresh wave of amnesia once one stepped back out onto the streets outside. Yet as Cetus weaved his way around the high contrast pit, the stark light and dark flashing intermittently over his person, the staccato drew his attention to a woman in the corner. She sat there, merely observing, in a booth all by herself. That visage… he knew it. And all he could wonder was why someone so high and mighty would be slithering about the underbelly with the likes of him. Following her gaze, he discovered her sights honed in on the utter humiliation of a person just a few yards beyond her booth. There was a smile on the observer’s face — coy, subtle, but present.

Cetus diverted from his original path and headed, instead, towards the lone woman. Predatory movements intertwined with the shred of aristocracy that somehow still remained in his bones. The bit that still allowed him a touch of his former audacity despite what he’d become. Fingertips skirted along the curvature of the booth until his own lean frame blocked the woman from the display just beyond. His arms folded delicately, like they weighed nothing and the moment she looked up at him, Cetus spoke.“Mrs. Weasley…now what are you doing here?”

#// head under water #drabble #// little miss perfect

[head-under-water]

Bei Mir Bist Du Schon

The telephone trilled through the quiet house. Over and over through the thick blanket of night did it shriek until, finally, Cetus stirred. Fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, he did his best to draw himself from his slumber, get the motion back in his limbs in order to silence that grating disruption.

As feet touched the tile floor, the cool surface was just enough of a shock to the system that Cetus was finally able to clear the fog from his mind. He negated using slippers for this reason alone. Calls such as this were not strange to him. They came within the parameters of his job. That being said, it didn’t make them any more welcome. So he’d created a quick ritual of gestures repeated to get him as coherent as possible before answering those daunting summons. Usually, a series of sleepless nights and tireless persistence would begin immediately so diligence was key in these initial moments. Someone had erred and being the ultimate fixer that he was, it was his job to erase that mistake from ever being revealed.

Mr. Mulciber? “Mm yes. What is it?” Mr. Mayer requires your presence immediately. The benefactor’s party…too much red wine. “Good god. 30 minutes…and call Lieutenant Jeffries. Has anyone called the authorities?” No, Mr. Mulciber. “Excellent. Just Jeffries. He’ll know what to do.”

The handset clanked when it returned to its eating place. Cetus’ silk robe billowed behind him as he turned with such speed to head back upstairs and prepare himself for the long night ahead. It was cool, raining, perfect for washing away any unwanted, stray evidence. So he picked a gray, plaid suit and a wide brimmed hat. A dark raincoat and even darker shoes to compliment the light tones of the suit and his freshly slicked back hair. The Fixer’s signature look was complete and he was off to work.

Money, you've got lots of friends Crowding round the door When you're gone and spending ends They don't come no more

Billie crooned over a crackling radio, the Sedanette splashing through freshly formed puddles as it raced through Beverly Hills. The maroon vehicle was known and let past the usual checkpoints and lookouts posted when such incidents occurred. The Fixer was clocking in. Best not to make him late. The song faded into an ad for borax so Cetus clicked it off completely. Billie he could abide, but mindless advertisements drained him of his focus.

As the Cadillac rolled to a stop, the brakes squeaked slightly and it bobbed slightly before settling entirely. Buttoning the raincoat, Cetus began humming Bei Mir Bist Su Schon letting the jolly melody put a spring in his step. He approached the scene of drunken men attempting to paw at scantily clad dancers who were absolutely terrified. Even if they didn’t know what lied just beyond, they certainly didn’t want these grubby hands all over them. Cetus knew that they were lured here under a false calling card — a shanty audition. It didn’t bother him any. Such things were just business.

But right now, all Cetus saw as he approached his entire purpose for being here was red ink. This was going to cost the studio so much in hush money and bribes. Perhaps if he was a more moral man, a better man as some might say, he’d turn around and head back to the small town in Northern California from whence he came. But how could he resist this? This power, this prestige? Want to make it in tinsel town? Be prepared to sell your most virtuous attributes; maybe even your soul. And that was a price Cetus, as his eyes laid upon the corpse of yet another line item, was more than willing to pay.

#// head under water #drabble #au

[head-under-water]

the compass.

A sleeping village waited, blanketed under a layer of winter’s kiss. Smoke rose from chimneys and the air hummed quietly with the sleepy breaths of villagers who knew not what fate had in store. Knees huddled to his chest, Cetus said nothing, but instead observed his comrades, sharing their silence as they sat in the four cardinal points around their fire.

Nestled across the hearth in the north position, Corban lounged languidly, one leg draped over the other. He leaned back, an effort to seem extremely comfortable. It made up for the fact that he was not in the least. Just as summer’s heat faded, their fragile camaraderie shattered and the brotherhood all but disbanded. Embarrassment to budding egos and rocks thrown at glass hearts culminated in shame their golden boy dared not to acknowledge. Their shining star made it seem as if he could not be bothered and that being here with his brothers was simply checking a box. One step closer to forging his own path, visage lost in the darkness, too far away for the flames to illuminate.

To his right, Marcus’ sea-green gaze honed in on the dancing tips, disappearing into the darkness between them all. Their rising prodigy, hand picked by their lord, covering them all with his brilliance like the sun spilling its light into the waning night sky. His mark peaked out from the end of his sleeve, so stark in contrast against his alabaster skin. The only one amongst them who possessed it cast envy amongst the others and he knew it. Long digits folded over each other. None of the outside elements could disturb his trance. He’d been chosen. The stakes were highest for him. It was one thing to stumble along the climb, but another to fall from the apex. To entertain these minor squabbles, in Marcus’ eyes, would ruin them all.

Perched to the west, Cetus looked upon Alek. Silent and intense like the looming dusk. Rich with color, he needn’t make a sound to convey the heaviness that lurked beneath his beautiful palette. His light was deceiving for their was darkness crept behind it, carrying a weight none of them could bear. Not properly. But he used his churning tragedy to wreak havoc upon innocents, providing cover for unholy deeds that would not be welcomed under the unforgiving light of day.

Cetus studied them all. Each one tethered to the other in one way or another, though none of them would say it was friendship. There was something far greater than that. Yet the boy within him desperately wished to salvage that somehow. But there were wounds he could never heal, rivalries that could not be won. Such trivial pettiness and the solutions required to squash them meant nothing in the face of their purpose here tonight. So Cetus sat on the cold ground with his comrades, silent, running the tips of his fingers along his wand’s hilt, waiting…waiting.

“It’s time,” Marcus spoke as he clicked his pocket watch shut. It quickly disappeared beneath his cloak before the boy stood and smoothed out his clothes. “You all know what to do. No need to go over it again.” His voice was sharp, cold. He only looked at Cetus to give a nod which Cetus promptly returned. Of course they knew what to do. This was their moment. Ever since they were eleven years old, they’d dreamt of this even though they couldn’t fathom the importance of it at the time.

Hoods pulled up, casting shadows over their faces and with a wave of Corban’s wand, the flames were snuffed out. He didn’t dare look west even though Alek was already gone. Off to his perch for the aerial vantage point. They were mechanisms of war, as dysfunctional and destructive as they’d ever be, and they were prepared to wage it.

#Skwad #D r a b b l e #// head under water

[head-under-water]

withering.

This was your fault, you know…

A judgmental commentary met with no reaction. How could he react to it? If Cetus wasn’t so perceptive to things outside of his immediate bubble, it might’ve just registered as white noise. Statuesque, he sat in the foyer of their quaint townhome, gently running his fingertips down that cool, clammy visage repeatedly. Life had left the other ages ago, but Cetus couldn’t find it in himself to move. His chest felt like it caved in, shock had immobilized his body. He was fairly certain tears had made an appearance at some point, but his sensory receptors were so shot that he couldn’t be absolutely sure.

His body ached and groaned, no longer the spritely young man he once was. Far from from it in fact. Sitting for so long on the floor made him stiff, but he used the last reserves of his resolve to gently set Ludo’s upper body gently on the ground. He wiped his nose with the back of his left hand then set both on his hips, teeth clenched, exhales loudly hissing through his nostrils. He had to keep it together. Gather up the pieces of his shattered soul and store them safely in a jar while he took care of this. It’s what he was good at His duty. Hadn’t he proven that time and time again? All those years served without complaint, every life taken and for what?!...

He’d come home to this mess — his love on the floor gurgling, clawing at his own throat as it spewed his lifesource all over, desperately inching towards a broken wand on the coffee table. Everything around his saturated. But now all that remained was a sack of flesh and bones with none of that warm, brutish charm it once possessed. There was nothing to be done.

Cetus had brought a surprise — a new addition to the family. This massive creature one of his contacts was selling at the market. The closest thing to a child they’d ever come to. A large, black Great Dane whom he hadn’t graced with a name just yet. It was to be their decision — a true testament to Cetus’ commitment and part of his ever-constant actions to show he was no longer the malevolent villain he used to be. I’ve changed. I promise. It’ll be a quiet life, a settled life. Just you and me. No more of that nonsense… Vows now hollow due to the lifeless form in his arms. Any hope of such a life scuttled away from him in the rivers of blood on the floor. The dog itself probably ran off once it saw the catastrophe of its new home. Cetus cared not.

Yet that pestilent, calm voice had the audacity to comment further. I’m sorry, Cetus…

“Oh you’re sorry?” Cetus’ head had snapped back to the apparition that’d hung around him for nearly twenty years. “Well thank you, Caradoc. I’m glad to know you’re sorry and that the first thing out of your mouth was the undeniable fact that the blame of this…this… this…” Cetus’ watery eyes shifted downwards to that beautiful golden stubble tainted with crimson and he just held that beautiful face against his bosom. His ire towards the spectre stemmed from the first thing that blurted out of his stupid mouth — this was your fault, you know. Though it sounded so far away when he heard it. Didn’t matter. Couldn’t have been his own conscience. No. It was so hard to tell right now…

A cool hand settled upon his shoulder. His face contorted and he sniffed loudly. The apparition was close to him now, comforting, almost like a friend. Cetus looked at his ethereal shadow, the victim that’d followed him most of his life, and saw the true sympathy that hovered in the other’s gaze. Cetus held Ludo’s upper body tightly, but it was so heavy and having done this for an unmeasurable amount of time, his arms were shaking. He’s okay. He’s not in pain anymore. I can promise you that.

Breath became erratic, lips trembled. Caradoc’s gentle voice was the final tick that made the icy charade of resolve keeping Cetus together crack. That reassurance, whether truthful or not, nudged him into a torrential cry of despair. He looked down at Ludo’s face and pressed his forehead against the other’s. The open wound in the deceased’s neck twisted unnaturally. Old enemies who’d found them in their sanctuary after so many years, sins buried were unearthed, and now their message had been received. Debts were paid in an oh so final way, the ultimate price being Cetus’ perpetual unhappiness.

“I should have never gone back to England…left that Weasley brat alone.” Cetus voice broke between sobs as he held Ludo’s cold face between his hands once again. “I’ve got nothing now… no one. No one…” Caradoc’s eyes averted, the comment seeming to have a negative effect on him to which Cetus bellowed, “I’m just stuck with you!” Cetus sneered at the transparent version of Caradoc Dearborne that hovered next to him -- the constant reminder that even a sin committed with the best of intentions has a way of literally coming back to haunt you. An insult that’d been hurled so abruptly, it seemed the spirit hadn’t known how to react.

Anger injected itself into Cetus’ chemical makeup, but it’d given him the strength he needed to finally pull away from his love’s corpse and stand up. He glanced to the side where Caradoc had been, but the spirit had gone. All the better. Cetus didn’t need those doe eyes analyzing him. Then, out of nowhere, Cetus slapped himself across the face, using the pain as a means to focus. Deep breaths to keep himself from crumbling again. He couldn’t allow himself too despite how his heart was tearing itself apart beneath his chest.

But that was no longer a concern or so it seemed. Now his friend from beyond the veil had left him too. No matter. In his current state, Cetus was convinced he didn’t need him or anyone for that matter. He gazed down at Ludo and despite wanting to jump into his arms again, breathe life into them somehow, that wicked and vile creature that resided in the pits of his psyche had already begun constructing protective walls. You don’t need them. Not anymore….

Much like his scarred face, Cetus had already begun piecing the most vulnerable parts of him back together, but with the gnarled perception of wounds not properly healed. Those nodules and dead tissue would seal his pain deep inside his heart where no one, not even himself, could find it. He retrieved his wand and began the process of obliviating the body. Each part of Ludo that disintegrated took its equal from Cetus’ soul with it until there was nothing left. Nothing, but the sad husk of a man who had nothing left to love, smile, or live for… and it was all his own doing.

#D r a b b l e #// head under water #//ludus

[head-under-water]

doubt is insidious

There is always something. As Cetus sat in his dank cell twirling a rogue spring atop his bony kneecap, that infectious phrase echoed in his ravaged mind. Dry, uneven skin itched, a finger scratched at it idly while bulging cerulean hues strained through cracked lenses, staring at that spinning spring. All he had this time around was time. Time which ate away at his beliefs. Time to think. Time to doubt.

The eternal truth of blood supremacy was unquestionable. This wasn’t the parable Cetus questioned. The values his father used to spin an impenetrable cocoon around his psyche were immune to the disintegrating effects of Azkaban. No. It was the vessel. The one he and his friends put their faith in. After all, hadn’t pureblood subtly ruled the wizarding bureaucracy for centuries with their methods, ebbing and flowing with the ever changing times, more or less holding on to their values? A radical, angry megalomaniac who slithered his way into the upper echelon of society, singing a siren’s song that only brought ruin to those who listened.

Who benefitted from this? Cetus’ father? His mother? Alek who sat just a few cells down the hall? Or perhaps Corban who strutted around with his nose in the air, traipsing around on razor thin ice until their lord shone his light on him. That’s what it always came down to. Not the values, but the attention. Marcus too he supposed. Perhaps Cetus was a bit biased when it came to his oldest friend, but even as Marcus basked in the light of their lord, he made sure those who came up with him were not left behind in the shadows — their sacrifices not in vain. He kept the life line alive.

The finger picked at scabs until fresh sanguine oozed out of a wound. Cetus sniffed, his sinuses began to burn. The pain, at least, made him feel something other than despair. Tears pooled along his eyelids. He could sense a door closing, a new one opening somewhere further off. But where exactly he couldn’t tell. Voices that weren’t there echoed in his head. He poked at the open wound, doing his best to relive the initial torment.

—

“Marcus, Marcus LEAVE!” Cetus screeched as he held his face, raw flesh sticking to his palm. Ever the stubborn one, his friend refused, drumming through his brain for a spell, a charm, anything to stop the acidic attack on Cetus’ visage. With his unoccupied hand Cetus grabbed onto Marcus’ cloak and pulled him down until his nose, peaking through the cracked shell of his own, touched the other’s mask, foreheads pressed together, his voice oddly soft. “Get out of here. Those maggots will be here soon and cart us all off again. Get out. Get out. GET OUT!”

The force of his push sent Marcus tumbling back on his heels, barely able to hold his balance. Cetus looked on to make sure his friend had gotten to safety. A sigh a relief collapsed his chest and he rested his head back against the wall as the encroaching clamor of aurors grew louder and louder. Cetus hissed as he removed his hand, palm sticky with fleshy residue. He looked up through his broken mask and looked up at the ceiling. Alek shouted commands off in the distance along with others. It was almost as if the whole crew was back together. Almost. Only one had neglected to come. But no doubt he was sitting cushy in his Ministry

“Bloody typical.” Cetus laughed to himself, the gestures causing him immeasurable pain, yet the desperate chuckles continued on. Familiar shadows soon emerged just beyond the corner and the futility of his cause mocked him through the shouts and resistance of his comrades…

—

An unknown amount of time passed as Cetus marinated in these recent memories. Even the pain of reopening his physical wounds seemed to fade into the abyss. Pieces of a realization were coming together in his mind. A traffic signal warning him to slow down and evaluate where he wanted the rest of his life to lead. That doubt insidiously infecting what he’d always thought was his true north showing him that there’d been a magnetic field thwarting his direction for most of his life. He was a proud, pureblooded son and by Merlin, he’d had enough of suffering for a cause that’d brought him nothing but pain. Well, no more.

Quickly he scrounged around for materials he’d been able to smuggle from their marches throughout the prison, a makeshift quill and torn pieces of parchment. Biting into his ring finger, Cetus used his blood to rapidly write down his thoughts then crafted it into a triangular shape. With this thought in mind and folded note in hand, Cetus then scrambled over to the bars at the edge of his cell, pressing the unmarked side of his face to them before hoarsely beckoning down the hall. “Alek, Alek!” his whisper coaxed to which a sleepy grunt was given in reply. “My friend. Now is no time for sleep.” He waited for that familiar face to emerge against his own bars and Cetus grinned before flicking the note with some force down to the other. “Read it! Do it quickly. We have much work to do!”

#d r a b b l e #skwad #// head under water

[head-under-water]

in memoriam.

June 28, 2016 — Garden of Bones.

He stood over grave as still as the headstone itself. A sneer curled his scarred upper lip as he winced with pain — lacerations on his shins and forearms necessary sacrifices for getting to where he now stood. Moss covered and weathered, it’d long been forgotten now, nearly two decades in fact. The in memoriams and tributes faded as those who actually cared either moved on or faded into obscurity. Like himself, a few relics still remained. Still mattered. The select few who hadn’t died for their lord or following a child, but spared for the lesser fate of living in this seemingly eternal purgatory. Alone with only their thoughts to comfort them.

An aged wand twitched in his hand, a conduit for the simmering rage that always lurked beneath the surface. This kind of rage was young man’s game — a young man’s appetite that he didn’t have the patience to pursue. That he could admit. One would’ve thought he’d learned that lesson already just a few years ago, a similarly thick-headed decision being the first domino that had him lose the one, final good thing in his life. But alas, here he was, back in England at the behest of his own acidic vengeance, concocting a plan to materialize it. It was one of the few joys he had left.

He wasn’t in denial of the person responsible for the way his life turned out. As he’d sometimes think back on those precious few years in the prime of his life, the decisions he made, the lives he ruined. All of those actions had been his decision. Unlike before, he didn’t blame his predicament on an exterior factor. No. He knew that he and he alone was the source of his own pain. One might think this would bring him some sort of twisted peace, but alas, it only brought more turmoil. Too vain to end it all. Too burdened to deal with it properly. So the rage continues, consumes. And he begins…

The wand is grasped firmly, dark magic uttered in a dead tongue slithers from his lips creating a dark, slow-moving cyclone of dirt and debris as the earth above the grave gradually lifts itself above his head. A preserved casket opens from the cavern, bones reveal themselves. Bits of dusty gristle clung to the larger ones while dust and sunken clothes still hugged their owner’s frame. His gaze narrowed as his free hand reached into a deep cloak pocket and began to sprinkle a mixture of ash, gold, and iron upon those delicate remnants. Upon contact, the bones began to disintegrate. Even in death, the banshee freak needed to suffer.

Subconsciously he kept the first part of the spell alive while actively summoning the remains from their resting place. He’d been waiting decades for this. The booby traps and curses set on the family plot were trifles compared to what he’d dealt with in the past. A field of corpses or an ancient ring housing a splintered fragment of a soul? Which has more thought put into it? He had nothing left but his vengeance now. His rage. But it had to remain controlled and utilized efficiently. Otherwise his work would all be for naught. A banshee in life deserved only the worst of a banshee’s death. And even though it was years too late to cast it upon her in person, he could make sure to dismantle her afterlife.

His wand rose as did her remains and he spoke in a cold, clear, terrifying tone. “You shall wander the land, departed from the body of man. You shall have no water to drink. You shall not stretch forth your hand. Through the house, you shall not enter. Through the fence, you shall not break. Into the chamber of peace, you will not go.”

Each repetition cause the wounds on his person to tear more and more, but he continued until his clothes were soaked with blood. Speckles of dust and dirt clung to his cloak. His color began to drain, he blinked and squinted as the blood loss threatened his consciousness. Just a few more incantations. Just a few more, and she’d not know peace for all eternity. He ground his teeth down, but as he’d acknowledge before, this kind of rage was a young man’s game. His body was failing and he wasn’t ready to die.

Within moments, all that swirled above his head and the grave fell back towards the earth. He fell too, gasping for air as his energy left. There was silence, a temporary calm as all things stilled and the energy shifted. Energy shifted. He could feel it. Despite it not being as he expected, he could sense her agony in the beyond as he surrendered to a slow building fit of laughter. Soon enough it was drowned out by thunder — a loud crack across the land — and an overwhelming downpour of rain immediately drenched what little bits of his clothes that’d remained untouched by his blood.

Using the last bit of strength he had, he stood and looked down as miniature rivers filled the half-filled grave. Though he couldn’t see it, his own life source mixed in with the mud, water, iron, ash dust and gold. It too seeped into the now-cursed bones, but nevertheless, he stood at the hole’s edge, cackling down as lightening raged above. The open lid of her casket peaked through the top layer of repacked earth, decayed and desperate. And he only laughed on, holding his stomach as he began to double over. It was only when he felt the light truly begin to leave him that he left — apparating as far away as he could as the storm finished off his work, sealing Amelia Bones’ grave with the terrifying beauty of nature’s fury.

#d r a b b l e #// bones and d u s t

[head-under-water]

honey i’m home: 2

Spring slowly crept into the cool, wet London air. Cetus stared upon the modest terrace once more. His wife’s forgettable home on a forgettable street in a forgettable neighborhood. He was right in his assessment that mediocrity did not suit her. Watering flowers, brushing her doorstep, polyester — it was a long way from the castle, the sea, even their Victorian home on the outskirts of the city. All her treachery, all her maneuvers, her venom dripped into the ears of the unknowing — all for a pudgy pig of a husband and to constantly look into the abyss that her life has become.

But Cetus wasn’t here for Lucille.

It wasn’t the first time Cetus saw his son — he’d been scouting the place since he’d been rushed out. Yet every time That boy stepped out, down those worn steps with chipped brick, Cetus’ heart stopped. He was tall, much more resembling Augustus than Cetus who favored his Anouke’s family’s stature. Yet his complexion was that of his father. Olive skin and dark hair, but eyes that shone like his mother’s.

Just like his complexion his name was a beautiful combination of his parents’ doing. Eridanus. In a rare moment of civility between Lucille and Cetus, they’d talked of legends, astronomy, and came upon that name — swore it to each other under the darkness of night before sunlight returned them back to their Cold War of a marriage.

Every morning the boy would walk freely from his home to the square nearly three blocks away. He’d meet some friends, horse around a bit, maybe take a walk by the river on a particularly hot day then return home. But today would be different. Today, Cetus would approach him. Delaying Eridanus from meeting his mates, He would assess the damage Lucille laid upon his character all these years and hopefully the boy would judge him using his own eyes verses those of his mother.

Cetus hadn’t felt this anxious in a very, very long time, but you wouldn’t know it looking at him. He walked with his head held high, though in and out of the shadows. Confidence could not be mistaken for foolishness — he was still a wanted man. But the urge to make contact hurried his steps, his agility which had slowly returned to him post escape. Through the bustle of the square, he used the blur of faces to hide his own as his eyes focused on that boy — that sweet angel who’d haunted his dreams for over a decade. A featureless face that clung to his nightmares. Opportunities forsaken for a greater purpose — the cost being a chunk of his heart that would never grow back unless… unless.

—

“How long are you going to keep this up until you actually talk to me?” Eridanus stood with a deadpan expression in his father’s direction, the square’s commotion going on behind them without care. He always took a shortcut through this alley because it was quiet. He could hear every rustle, every breath. So if a strange man decided to start following him, he’d know. At first it worried him. His mother had been on edge the last couple of weeks, but after catching a glimpse of his watcher’s face, Eridanus grew curious. Instinct told him that he knew this man. Didn’t take him long to figure out how.

Yet to catch him off guard like this, Eridanus could tell the other wasn’t expecting it. Everything he could find out about his father without asking his mother, was that he meticulously planned for every outcome, every variable. But when it came to his immediate circle, he was blinded. Could you get any closer than your own child?

“Was wondering when you’d show up. I read the Prophet, you know. Knew you’d come sniffing around eventually.” Eridanus rocked back and forth on his heels, hands in his pocket. His confidence didn’t prepare him for anything past this, but he wouldn’t let himself falter. His mother taught him better than that. “Don’t know what you expect to happen here. I don’t know you. Don’t want to. You know how hard it is at school when your father is a convicted Death Eater? And with all this shit going on? Your name is a curse. I wish I could be rid of it.”

Eridanus wasn’t sure what emboldened him so, but despite his calm exterior, he couldn’t help but reach for the wand in his pocket. If half of what they said Cetus did was true, he couldn’t be too careful…

—

So they stood there, father and son, in utter silence. Cetus’s lips tightened together, the line so thin it was as if a child drew it there. He’d like to say all of that banter was Lucille’s doing, but were the roles reversed, he saw himself acting the exact same way. Pride always seemed to worm its way into deprecating situations along with a cocktail of other emotions. His jaw tightened, ached from he tension. There was so much he wanted to say, but nothing, he felt, that would make a difference now. And yet, he’d be a fool not to try.

“I won’t bother you anymore if that is what you wish,” he began, finally letting air out and racing his chin out as he retook control of the situation. “But know this: I am in your blood more than you care to realize. So as much as you will run from me, you will never escape me. I am in your marrow, boy.” He let the words sink in, that razor sharp glare in the boy’s eyes relenting. Cetus stepped forward and spoke softly. “This won’t be the last time we see each other, but the next encounter won’t be as pleasant. Your mother may have succeeded in hiding her own monstrous past, but I assure you I will bring it all to light. Then you will make your own, informed decision.”

Cetus inhaled deeply and dared to put a hand on his son’s shoulder, squeezing affectionately as his eyes watered. “I wish I could have seen you grow, but I will not apologize for my absence. You will learn, when the time comes, that actions have consequences. I only wish that your lesson isn’t as severe as mine.” With that, their eyes connected, a confused boy and an aged man, sharing a moment that left as quick as it came.

The hand dropped and Cetus didn’t know what else to say. This was the way. He would not be a father to his son. That path was closed to him. But offering up a valuable life lesson to the child was something he could leave as a parting gift. So with that, he left Eridanus in the alley with that question hanging over his head, apparating to a location unknown while his son stood there, frozen and afraid of what was to come.

#D r a b b l e #// head under water #honey i'm home

[head-under-water]

phasmophobia.

The laughing potion, boy! Drink it quick, I can’t hold this much longer!

The words echoed through the air, rattling the decrepit cabin walls around Cetus as she stood frozen in the corner. His eyes were wide, fear gripped his heart while a floating creature draped in rags clawed at her own head. Phineas Laurel, the department veteran, had cast a bubble-head charm to contain the scream for now, but the old man’s magic was weak. It wouldn’t last very long. It’d be up to Cetus to cage the spirit properly, yet he there he stood, frozen like a deer in headlights.

For bloody sakes, Mulciber, d’ya want yer head t’explode? DRINK THE RUDDY POTION! Laurel’s gravely voice pierced the the shock which’d captivated Cetus and he quickly padded down for the little kit Mr. Laurel made sure he brought with them. He could see the charm begin to waver and he gulped down its contents just as the bubble popped. In an instant, the sonic scream filled the room. The unseen force of it made Cetus nauseous and he nearly doubled over. But there was no time to rest. The wailing woman rushed at him with her death-pale hands like claws coming for his face…

—

It was the abnormal paranormal that summoned Cetus and Mr. Laurel to the Outer Hebrides. A being Laurel said he hadn’t wrangled in many-a-year. I’d send you up by yerself, but if this report carries a shred of truth, best I goes up witcha. It was just as well, considering there were only a dozen families strewn about those islands and Laurel spoke the language. Cetus couldn’t imagine a posh lad like himself trying to calm down a fisherman’s family that only spoke Gaelic. The idea alone ruffled his feathers. Counselor was not part of his job description. But as he gazed upon the hauntingly silent property they were to set foot on, Cetus thought that maybe, perhaps, he should’ve taken more consideration when it came to calming nerves.

“They aren’t supposed to do this, Mr. Laurel. Why is this happening?” As the men approached the small cabin on the bluff, Cetus posed this question to which the old man simply huffed and scratched his chin. For some reason they couldn’t apparate directly onto the property so they had some time to chat.

Someone musta disturbed her bones. Only reason I can think of. As Phineas Laurel mused quietly, racking his brain for other potential explanations, Cetus noticed a Border Collie just within his peripherals. It was nestled in the tall grass gnawing on a rather large bone and it made Cetus pause. Bones indeed… The sight left him with a chill he couldn’t shake, but he was drawn to the dog, curiosity urging him forward. He knelt down in front of it, introduced himself by offering the back of his hand for the dog to sniff then quickly plucked the bone from its grasp. A splintered femur it looked like and there were others under the animal’s paws. Judging by this plot of land many bodies were buried here. He put it in his bag then jogged off to rejoin Laurel as he approached the house…

The letter had been a tale of no ordinary creature. Banshees themselves were few and far between. As Celtic cultures got pushed further and further to the outskirts of their respected homelands, there were fewer reports of their messenger of death on Ministry record. But this particular spectre was told to have crossed corporeal and spiritual lines unheard of before. We cen hear ‘er cries in the middle of the nigh’ then the next morn she kills ‘em. Any of ‘em. Long bruises their wee necks. All the little ones. She keeps killin' the little ones… A weeping mother described the horror their family had been experiencing.

Cetus and Laurel listened intently only to immediately cover their ears in pain from a screech off in the distance. A yelp that could only belong to a dog was quick to follow and the family shivered with fear. They huddled together while Mr. Laurel and Cetus looked at each other. They needed to act quickly…

—

The last thing Mulciber saw before he ducked under the flying spirit was a flash of her pale facade as she zoomed just over him. Quickly his gaze shot up, Laurel’s stiff body contorted up on the floor, blood seeping from his orfices. Cetus’ breathing became quick and shallow. Panic threatened to take hold. He was safe from her scream, but she was hellbent on causing him physical harm. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why.

She turned around. He had only seconds to act. Cetus scrambled to his feet, but as he did so, the contents of his satchel tumbled out. Vials shattered, the pages of his journal fluttered about, and the bone he’d so easily forgotten about rattled against wooden planks. In that moment both he and the banshee paused. Their attentions attached to that bone. A split-second and Cetus made the connection. It was hers. The torment, the deaths, attacking the children. Someone had dug up her bones just like Mr. Laurel had guessed. Synapses fired in his brain faster than he could comprehend. Cetus leapt to his feet and pointed the wand at the femur just as the banshee went for it.

Infernus…

A flame hotter than that of typical fire was needed to burn bone. The banshee cried out, her shrillness breaking what glass panes were left in that tiny cabin. That wouldn’t stop her fully. Cetus knew there were other remains keeping her tied to this plane. But the damage would hold her off just long enough for him to out run her. Her hold on these grounds was fierce, still not allowing him to apparate. So he bolted out the door towards the spot where he saw the dog. Whatever stun effect he’d accomplished quickly faded and the banshee flew after him. Her ethereal, inhuman gliding was closing the distance between them far quicker than he would’ve liked. The strength of her screams, though not fatal, created tremendous pressure inside his head. He felt the veins pulsing atop his skull and in his neck as he ran.

Just beyond that bend he could see the dog’s corpse in a pool of coagulated blood. Its fur matted. Precision mattered not and the spell left the tip of his wand once more just as a cold hand grasped the back of his coat. Never did five seconds seem so long. As the curse traveled towards the dead dog and banshee bones, the spirit turned him around and closed her hands around his throat. Cetus had no choice but to look upon her face, her eyes gone with only shrunken sockets staring back at him. Skin gray and taut clung to her bone structure as she squeezed and squeezed, Cetus clawing at her limbs.

But the curse finally hit her bones and the banshee instantly began to writhe painfully. She dropped Cetus to the ground, leaving him raspy and gasping for air. He scurried back, his chest heaving, as he watched the terrible sight. Her aura was alight, mirroring the burning of her remains. Her hair and rags on her body blew back then singed until there was nothing left except a rotten form beneath. Then that too disintegrated. She screamed all the while, piercing through the laughing potion and forcing Cetus’ brain to release the pressure as blood seeped from his nose.

He didn’t move until the last bit of her was gone and even then it was uncontrollable tremors. Somehow he eventually managed to stand up, subconsciously touching his throat and feeling the tender flesh there. He swallowed and looked back to the house. Laurel’s body was in there somewhere. He’d have to retrieve that. The family most likely was either dead or fled once the banshee appeared. Honestly Cetus wasn’t sure. He and Mr. Laurel ran straight to her once she made her presence known.

Shakily, Cetus exhaled and smoothed his hair back with his free hand. He walked back towards the house to finish the job, his consciousness mentally checked out as his mind attempted to recover itself. What happened next he couldn’t say. In fact, he didn’t remember much of it. But by the time he returned back to the Ministry with Laurel’s body, in the report it was said the amount of blood loss was substantial. Phineas Laurel hemorrhaged to death due to the effects of the banshee’s scream. Cetus was offered leave, but he just took the next day off just to come back into work like nothing happened. He cleared off Phineas’ desk like he didn’t exist and no one batted an eye when he wrote the most vague report acceptable. The comings and goings of the Spirit Division usually went unnoticed anyway.

#D r a b b l e #// head under water

[head-under-water]

do your duty.

I know you…

Cetus hung his head, lifted fist at the ready, but unable to move. There was a duty to be done, a message to be delivered, but in this moment, Cetus couldn’t bring himself to do it. A weight hung in his chest, an ache he hadn’t fully acknowledged since he got the news himself. He’d just pushed it off to deal with at a later date. There were things that needed to be done. Double marked a traitor by his country and his lord, time was of the essence. The freedom to grieve was not a luxury he owned right now. Even so, the loss seeped out from its compartment just the same — luxury be damned. It clung to his resolve, his instinct, his discernment. And as he stood there with his fist raised, mere centimeters away from the door he intended to knock on, he remained statuesque. Until it began to open all on its own, relieving him of the knocking at least.

Under the cloak, the shift in Cetus’ features was noticeable — jaw slackened, eyes widened just so. Before him stood the exact person he was looking for. There was no mistaking that. He could see her father in her. However, the radiant beauty she possessed must’ve been her mother’s addition. Cetus felt the remnants of his inner child chuckle at that truth. It comforted him for a split second, but that ignored grief boomeranged to the forefront full force like a punch to the stomach. Cetus’ chest caved and his eyes watered. Immediately, his jaw clamped shut and he inhaled slowly to reclaim his nerve just at the moment she said it: I know you….

In what capacity this young woman would’ve known him was questionable at best. As far as he was concerned, her father was never the sentimental sort — Cetus had plenty of that for the both of them. It’d just been their dynamic. The perfect balance. So for him to mention to his daughter who Cetus was or even what he meant outside of a known acquaintance was beyond him. Cetus’ life had been stunted at such an early age and he had no way of knowing. Perhaps she could recognize him from the reports, the smearing in the Daily Prophet, or maybe — just maybe…

You're Cetus Mulciber, my father’s oldest friend.

Finally Cetus gave her something more than an ambiguous expression and removed the hood of his cloak. He looked at the young lady properly, allowing her to gaze upon his scarred, wretched face wrought with emotion beneath its superficial wounds in return. Warmth pierced through the heavy shroud in his chest. Somehow her description meant more to him than anything else in this moment. A rare beam of light. “I am.” He attempted a smile, but it quickly distorted, lips pulling to one side before his head dropped down again. The bereavement’s force was greater than gravity.

It took a few moments, but Cetus gathered himself once more and straightened his posture, blinking the tears from his eyes. He steeled himself best he could. The message had to be delivered. “Marcus is dead.” The words came from pursed lips cold and undeserving of their weight. He watched it seep past her first layer of comprehension, sink into her deeper understanding and poison her own poise like the parasite that it was. Cetus witnessed this emotional decay with his hands clasped so tightly that they began to shake. He couldn’t acknowledge the burden of this loss in front of a person he never met no matter who she was or what his best friend meant to her.

And yet… the shaking journeyed forth from his hands and up his arms. Cetus’ lips began to tremble while stray tears rolled down his marred visage. Marcus had been his protector throughout all those years in Azkaban. His benefactor who made that time more bearable than many of the other prisoners there. He risked life and his own potential incarceration to do so for as long as he did. But Cetus couldn’t keep himself together for a mere five minutes to do Marcus Avery’s daughter the courtesy of not learning about her father’s death on the front page of the Daily Prophet tomorrow? Cetus winced at his own weakness.

His attention turned back to the girl who’d begin to lean against the doorframe. Something came over him and he immediately grabbed her shoulders and held up upright, gently. “I know, Tracey, I know.” He looked her in the eyes. Those words were all he could come up with, but they seemed to have an effect, so he let her go. “You deserved to hear it this way, from someone who cares. I cannot stay, despite how much I wish I could. I wish we met under different circumstances. I truly do.”

Cetus’ bottom lip rolled between his teeth before he nodded his head and took a step back. Silence fell between them. What was left to say after that? He continued to blink and pulled his hood back up. His grip on control was wavering. He turned to leave…

Thank you…for that.

Tracey’s voice was softer when she spoke, but it was enough to stop Cetus in his tracks and have him turn around once more to look at her. He swallowed and exhaled, nodding just slightly as a sign of acknowledgment. He’d done his duty, but now he had to leave before he lost himself at the feet of this strange girl who seemed to have more a connection to him than his own flesh and blood. Cetus managed enough poise to bow his head to the dear girl before resuming his path and apparating out of her sight. Where he ended up was a location unknown to anyone save one other person.

When he got there, Cetus dropped to his knees and gathered his cloak in his hands. The black fabric balled up into a messy coil and he shoved it into his mouth. Cries of anguish died against the ebony cloth as Cetus’ body shook with despair.

#D r a b b l e #marcus avery tag