mortemrevelio

[mortemrevelio]

arcmacmillan​:

As Lucius spoke, a part of Archie, the part he had to bury deep down when he was around his pure-blooded peers, flared up. Of course the Goblins were horrific, but did they really deserve to have no fun? Archie didn’t know, but he would never suggest such a horrendous offense to Lucius Malfoy. No, it was better to play along; better to pretend as though what Lucius was saying was fact. He hated this game, but it was one he had gotten quite good at playing, especially with the other man. If he wanted to keep him around, after all, he couldn’t be himself. Not really. There were few people he could be entirely Archie around, and even though Lucius knew of a side that many others didn’t, he would never know Archie. “Would be quite funny if they tried to throw parties in the vaults, though,” Archie said, a dramatic sigh following. “I suppose we’ll never know if a goblin could throw a true bash.”

The man’s offer sent a tingle down Archie’s spine, even though he wished it didn’t. “I suppose I can leave the Goblins for the time being,” he said, shaking his head as if it were truly a question. It was unfortunate, how much Archibald Macmillan enjoyed Lucius Malfoy’s company. Truly, he knew he should run, but the part of him, the younger man who had first come out to Lucius, stayed. “I think I know just the place,” Archie grinned. “But you’ll have to trust me, if you don’t mind.” He held out his hand for Lucius to take, heart hammering in his chest.

Archie didn’t seem entirely comfortable, and Lucius couldn’t help pitying his friend; what must it be like, to be so afraid of gossip that one shied-away from showing one’s true self in public? (Granted, there were certain parts of Lucius’s true self that he was currently keeping hidden, but that was a different sort of thing altogether -- and once the Dark Lord had won, he’d waste no time in striding out proud and glorious in his Death Eater robes!) No, Lucius had learned early that the best way to deal with gossip was to enjoy it -- indeed, to court it. To make it a strength, maybe even a weapon -- never something to fear.

Lucius dealt with the threat of social stigma not by fearing or even ignoring it, but by grasping it by the hand and embracing scandal until he’d made it part of his brand -- made it fashionable. He would never understand why Archie balked at doing the same, even after his marriage to the indomitable and bewitching Isla Selwyn. He could only hope, for Archie’s sake, that after they at last produced the requisite heir that he would let himself loosen up -- not that there weren’t perks to helping Archie “loosen up” in the interim. More than helping goblins do the same, certainly! Lucius laughed at the thought of a goblin-bash and suggested, “I’d go to a vault party. That’s unique enough to be charming, even with the possibility of goblins on the guest list. Perhaps you should throw one someday, call it a ‘community outreach’ event, or advertising or something. If anyone can talk the stingy little buggers into it, it’s you.” He winked cheekily, although Archie’s next thought was far more enticing than hobnobbing with goblins.

“My dear Archie,” Lucius purred more than said, taking the offered hand and raising it to his lips for a soft kiss, all without breaking eye-contact, “I trust you implicitly.” He grinned, although it was something of a lie; there were few people indeed even among his closest friends whom Lucius trusted without any reservations, possibly only Narcissa -- but he had no reason to distrust Archie on this count at least, even if there were some secrets he was nowhere near ready to share with him...yet. For now he said, “Lead on,” and followed.

#look who finally has gifs for lucius huzzah! #and flirty gifs no less -- what perfect timing for archie ;) #arcmacmillan #c: the perils of paperwork #date: jan | 1982 | 28 #character: lucius malfoy

[mortemrevelio]

arcmacmillan​:

The Perils of Paperwork

The bloody Goblins were taking more than their allotted time to try and figure out just how to keep a particular vault safe. At some point, Archie had suggested his father’s trolls and they’d actually laughed in his face. Laughed, as if this vault were really any different than the others they’d put trolls to guard. Archie had left the meeting, although it was surely not over, with the excuse that he had other paperwork to finish and that the goblins really, truly, didn’t need his help in this matter. Unfortunately, they would have to call him back in when all was said and needed to be signed by the Ministry employee.

Now, though, he stood outside, reading the paperwork that the goblins had drafted asking for dragons. Dragons. Bloody hell, didn’t they have enough creatures to worry about on this level? Sure, there were dragons down at the very bottoms of the vaults, for the most secretive and lucrative of families. He was certain the Malfoy’s vault did have a dragon, although since he was not there to build the vault, he wasn’t allowed to know that information. Lucius wasn’t about to spill his vault secrets, even if some other words were exchanged between the two men often. Almost as if Archie had summoned him, the voice of Lucius Malfoy echoed throughout the hall. “You’ve guessed correctly,” he grinned, unable to contain the glee he felt at seeing the other man. “Of course, I wouldn’t exactly consider it hopping. Napping, maybe. Bored to tears, absolutely. I don’t cry for many, Lucius, but whoever taught goblins how to plan clearly did not teach them the art of simplicity.”

Archie snorted, unable to stop himself. Lucius had always made him laugh, despite everything. “Their idea of fun is reading a History of Magic textbook. I doubt they have the same ideas of leisure as you and I, Malfoy.”

Lucius cackled -- oh, it was such a relief running into someone with real wit and refinement, after a long morning of blood Ministry flunkies -- and slung a fond arm around Archie’s shoulders as though they were still young men paling-around in their dungeon dormitory. “Ahh well,” Lucius observed superciliously, “the little bastards wouldn’t do us much good if they had interests beyond their obsession with treasure, would they? I suppose it’s just as well you haven’t corrupted them. Could you imagine the disaster it would be if Gringott’s suddenly shut-down because the goblins decided they wanted a day off? Or a vacation?” Lucius snorted. “Best to leave them happy in their toils so we can enjoy our leisure.”

He turned to glance at the closed door, as though he might be able to glimpse some useful tidbit through the solid wood, but while Lucius Malfoy was a shrewd observer with a knack for looking through people, that knack did not extend to oak doors. Men, on the other hand... He turned back to Archie with a rather different sort of smile on his face this time. “Speaking of enjoying one’s leisure, corruption, and all that...what do you say we skive-off from those boring responsibilities and find something a little more...entertaining with which to occupy ourselves?” He winked. “One another for instance, perhaps?”

The fact that “corrupting” Archie Macmillan fell very much within the scope of Lucius’s responsibilities to the Dark Lord -- albeit not precisely in this fashion -- was something best kept to himself, at least for now. But what were a few white lies between friends?

#a certain vault...ohmigosh the LESTRANGE VAULT? WITH THE HORCRUX!!?? #arcmacmillan #c: the perils of paperwork #character: lucius malfoy #date: jan | 1982 | 28

[mortemrevelio]

The Perils of Paperwork

LOCATION: Ministry of Magic DATE: Jan 28, 1982 @arcmacmillan​

The Dark Lord had been breathing down Lucius’s neck lately (not literally, thank Merlin!) about the lack of new recruits -- willing, coerced, or Imperiused, He didn’t care -- and fear of his master’s temper was the only thing that could have compelled Lucius to leave the comfort of his home on this bleak wintry day. He would have much rather been sprawled in front of the fire playing with Draco than be trudging through the crowded, cavernous halls of the Ministry of Magic -- but that wouldn’t have done much to keep the Dark Lord happy...

A familiar face (not that there were many faces in the Ministry that weren’t familiar to Lucius these days, at least in passing, but there was a difference between familiar and familiar, so to speak) caused his spirits to brighten, and the smile with which he greeted the other wizard was, for once, utterly genuine: “Archie Macmillan, you gorgeous miscreant, what are you doing here on such a wretched afternoon? No, don’t tell me -- it’s the bloody goblins, isn’t it? Keeping you hopping?” Lucius’s lip curled -- not at Archie, old housemate and chum that he was, but at the idea of any wizard, especially one he actually liked, being kept at the beck-and-call of such lowly creatures. Still, gold talked no matter in whose hands it lay...

“Somebody ought to show those blighters how to have some fun sometime. You haven’t educated them in the arts of leisure and relaxation yet, then?”

#arcmacmillan #location: ministry of magic #date: jan | 1982 | 28 #character: lucius malfoy #c: the perils of paperwork

[mortemrevelio]

starbrightblack‌:

Sirius pressed his lips together as Lucius snapped the assumption about an apology, then grit his teeth as he was further laid into. Lucius Malfoy was an ungrateful pompous ass who as far as Sirius could tell, had never performed a day of difficult magic in his life beyond maybe correcting the color of something on his robes. Most likely he complained to tailors about that until they fixed whatever his perceived problem was–because Sirius was sure they were all perceived. Anyone who could get so worked up about simply having the option to try something profiled off a muggle flavor clearly had no real problems in his life.

“Apologize for what?” he asked, voice as sickly sweet as he could make it under the circumstances, which left it deeply acidic still. “For assuming he was a child who might be interested in something children like? I would apologize, but based on your protectiveness–” hopefully that was a suitably favorable word for it in Lucius’ book “–I would hate to overstep by speaking to blood directly.” 

Oh, he’d fucked up. He shouldn’t have called Draco blood. Lucius wouldn’t like the reminder. Pressing on quickly, Sirius added, “I will leave you to your decision making then. It would see there are customers inside who are rather unhappy, and I need to see to their needs. If you decide to become a paying customer, please come in to order, as that is the setup Florean has created.”

With that, Sirius fled inside. He was seething, but he managed to keep it in check as the woman he’d noticed marking in laid into him about the perversion of introducing muggle flavors. Sirius apologized for the inconvenience about three times and reminded her he didn’t create ice cream flavors about four more. Eventually she left with a huff, a scathing note of anger left behind for Florean. Sirius picked up the envelop and labeled it, From a purity lunatic, before tucking it into the cash box for Florean to find when he came in later. 

He glanced back up toward the window, wondering if Lucius was ever going to come in or if Sirius would eventually get to accuse him of loitering. That would be fun.

.

Lucius Malfoy was a wizard who lost his temper over silly little things; a wizard much given to melodrama. But when he got angry, truly angry, all the way down to his core, he did not rage or scream or stomp around or shatter furniture. No, when he was truly angry, he went cold. That was what spread through him now, as the former-Black dared have the gall to claim kinship with his son. It felt like white-hot ice crackling through his veins. His languid slouch went stiff, his fingers tightening against his wooden chair. He wasn’t restraining the urge to go for his wand; when Lucius truly lost his temper, a quick hex was never the answer. That was something to soothe smaller slights. This merited vengeance, and that was never something to be rushed into off-the-cuff.

His frigid gaze followed Sirius no-longer-Black as the man fled into the shoppe, too late. Apologize for what, indeed. Lucius seethed, plotting devastation as he stood and announced in a chill, carrying voice, “Come, Draco. Let us return home, where we will not be plagued by such vile improprieties as the so-called people who run this place would visit upon us all.” He started to lift Draco from his chair, but was stopped short by his son’s aggrieved protest:

“Ice cweam,” the boy insisted, his small face curdling into a pout. “Wanna ice cweam.”

Lucius returned Draco to his chair immediately. “Oh very well,” he said, caving instantly; in the face of his son’s distress, he could not help but acquiesce, standards be damned. “You shall have an ice cream, Draco, you are right; I did promise.” He smiled at the child, but Draco did not cheer up.

“Dada ice cwem,” he demanded. “Dada ice cweam too.”

Lucius sighed and smiled and nodded. “If I must, my boy. Anything you say.” He smoothed the soft pale strands of his son’s hair, leaning down to kiss Draco on the tip of his nose before he lifted the child and carried him into Florean Fortescue’s Muggle-loving ice cream parlor. Yes, for Draco he would even swallow his pride and let the once-Black pretend that he had the upper hand; pretend that Lucius Malfoy was caving to his whims, his petty little power-struggles about where to order and what flavors were suitable to serve to children. (Not that Draco would be tasting anything Muggle, of course. Lucius would sooner see all of Diagon Alley burned down than pollute his precious son with that filth.) Let Sirius once-Black revel in his apparent little victory as Lucius ordered suitable sundaes for them both.

Once-Black -- and any Muggle-loving scum foolish enough to employ him -- would learn better soon enough.

END.

Two Fwoopers with One Sundae

#END #unless you have plans you were hoping to continue in which case i'm more than happy to resume! #c: two fwoopers with one sundae #starbrightblack #date: dec | 1981 | 10 #feel free to finish up on your end #character: lucius malfoy

[mortemrevelio]

starbrightblack‌:

Sirius didn’t mind work most of the time. Florean reminded him a bit of Uncle Alphard, and the man was always jovial. He cared more about a positive environment in the store than he did making every little penny possible, which meant Sirius got to make a lot of children’s days with free ice cream. He also got flexible hours without a ton of questions if he last minute canceled his shift for, say, a splinching accident that he couldn’t go to the hospital over.

Unfortunately it also mean that when people like Lucius Malfoy arrived all dolled up like some kind of wrapping paper-covered peacock, Sirius had to smile pleasantly and walk up to their table. “We prefer you to order at the counter,” he said, still smiling even though Lucius wasn’t looking at him. “Our flavors change often enough that we don’t have physical menus, not up to date on all the individual flavors anyway.” 

The man knew who he was fucking talking to. You didn’t boy at family, although Sirius didn’t really want to claim him and was sure the feeling was mutual. Still, he glanced at the child Lucius had brought along with him, equally stuffed into something that looked neither fashionable nor particularly comfortable to Sirius. He supposed his kid was technically his cousin. He wondered if Andy had ever even gotten to meet her nephew. He wondered if she cared.

Still, Sirius cleared his throat and gestured back inside. “We have most of the usual fruit selection, butter toffee, roasted pumpkin, the typical drink-inspired options, although I think we’re out of butter beer for the day, and some chocolate. Oh, and lemon drop. It’s based on some muggle candy Florean discovered somewhere.” He knew that mention would make Malfoy refuse it, but he still added, “It’s quite popular with kids his age.” He jerked his head in Draco’s direction.

.

Oh, the man’s voice did grate on the ears, didn’t it? Just enough lingering familiarity to really get under one’s skin. Lucius looked up at him while also tilting his head so that he could look down his nose at the scum in front of him. “I am sure,” he drawled, “that what you meant to say was that you were deeply apologetic for being too incompetent to be able to keep Fortescue’s menus up to date, and that you would do your best to compensate for this unfortunate oversight. Is that not so?”

Really, what was wrong with the man? Blood-traitor and reprobate that he was, he was still a wizard. Could he not tie the selection of flavors available to the menus with some sort of Protean Charm? True, it would have to be a complex variation on the spell to account for the gap between words on a page and the actual ice cream itself -- but how complicated could that be? Well, more complicated than could be managed by Sirius Black at any rate. Lucius supposed he really shouldn’t be surprised...

He wasn’t as surprised by the mention of a Muggle flavor as he would have liked to have been, either; far too many wix of fine standing were far too willing to compromise their world and all it stood for over a few measly Muggle fripperies. He’d thought the Fortescues were better than that at least, but perhaps this was once-Black’s influence at work. Even a fool like him should know better than to insult Draco like that, though.

Lucius fixed his gaze a few inches above the other wizard’s head and said, in an icy voice, “My son has higher standards than your Muggle lemon drop, boy.” Draco giggled and tugged at his father’s rings, making it hard for Lucius to maintain his imperious tone and disdainful glare, but he persevered, continuing: “And I find it appalling that you would sully these environs by peddling such filth here in the heart of Magical London, polluting your hapless and unwitting customers with the pretense of harmless sweets. Any decent wix would be ashamed.” Lucius pitched his voice to carry and was gratified to notice from the corner of his eye a matronly witch at a nearby table shoot him a harried glance before snatching a half-eaten bowl from one of the children in front of her and marching back inside with the air of a woman about to demand a refund in exchange for a piece of her mind. One down...

He managed to keep from smirking. “Now, apologize to Draco for the insult, and then we will order our ice cream,” he commanded. If the man wanted to abandon his bloodline and act like a house-elf, then Lucius would treat him like a house-elf.

Two Fwoopers with One Sundae

#starbrightblack #c: two fwoopers with one sundae #date: dec | 1981 | 10 #character: lucius malfoy

[mortemrevelio]

Two Fwoopers with One Sundae

@starbrightblack​

Draco was too little to understand what had happened, of course; was too young to know death or loss. Had Lucius had the power to ensure it, he would never learn either -- but even Malfoys have limits, and shielding their children from the base facts of the world forever was beyond even his most arrogant hopes. Still, Draco didn’t understand yet, any more than little Theodore did -- but Lucius did.

He hadn’t known Leina Nott well -- hadn’t thought much of her, either -- but she and her husband had been regular guests at any social event the Malfoys hosted or attended (or as regular guests as a crotchety old recluse like Josiah could ever be) and they had shared a certain unspeakable but undeniable social connection, for all that Leina herself had never been made aware of it (a terrible but terribly common practice in a marriage, Lucius thought, keeping secrets from one’s spouse) and the boys played together, sometimes...

So her murder hit home hard for Lucius on behalf of his son, even if it would likely be years before Draco himself understood. He had needed to do something bright and sparkling and alive with the boy -- and if he could kill two fwoopers with one spell, so much the better.

Thus he was here in Diagon Alley, settling Draco securely into one of the child-spelled seats at the enchanted heated tables along the street outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. In preparation for the planned activities, Lucius was dressed somewhat more sensibly than normal -- while cleaning spells could salvage just about anything, it was always best to be cautious when facing the combination of ice cream and child -- in silver-and-burgundy threaded brocade with a stylish hippogriff feather-fur collar while Draco wore robes of cozy ermine and emerald-dyed merino.

Lucius had put even more care into the timing than he had their wardrobes, and thus knew exactly who was working at Fortescue’s this afternoon: his wife’s former cousin, the deplorable and detestable Sirius Orion Black...whose chosen lifestyle meant that today, he would have no choice but to wait on Lucius and his son like a servant. Like a house-elf. It was about all the man was fit for, after all. Lucius didn’t make eye contact with Sirius; just snapped his fingers imperiously and demanded, “You there, boy -- a menu posthaste.”

#starbrightblack #character: lucius malfoy #c: two fwoopers with one sundae #location: diagon alley (fortescue's) #date: dec | 1981 | 10

[mortemrevelio]

mortemrevelio‌:

The werewolf seemed uncomfortable, out of his element. Good. Keep the beast off-balance, tease him and toy with him…just like he would a Mudblood, only not really, was it? Because this was no ignorant bit of mud, no blind Muggle without an inkling of what really went on in the world – this was a wix, a proper wizard once upon a time before the bite and the curse. Castor was tainted, ruined – but not stupid. Wouldn’t be trusted to guard Josiah’s house if he was stupid. Wouldn’t even be trusted to set foot on the grounds if he was stupid.

The mere fact that Josiah Nott, of all people, was willing to tolerate some filthy pup on his land – that said that while Castor might be new and skittish, he was no fool. Had Greyback recommended him? Would Josiah have paid any mind to the recommendation of a beast like that? No – but he’d listen to the Dark Lord, wouldn’t he? Had Lord Voldemort himself sent little Castor here, sniffing around? What for? To get a fresh perspective on Josiah? But no – the man was a fanatic, devoted to the cause without question; if there were no Dark Lord, no Death Eaters, old Josiah would be out there hunting down mudbloods for sport on his own, Antonin had no doubt. So if it wasn’t Nott’s loyalty the Dark Lord had sent Castor here to poke at…what was his purpose?

Maybe it was just to tweak the old bastard’s tail. Antonin wouldn’t put pettiness like that past the Dark Lord – it was one of the things he liked best about him.

So, send Nott and the others off to lay a trap for their enemies, then send Castor here to watch the house and keep it safe from non-existent threats…all to make Josiah squirm at the thought of a werewolf in his garden. Laughter bubbled up on Antonin’s lips and burst out, raw and hoarse and heartfelt – a downright guffaw of grim delight.

“I would,” he agreed cheerfully, “I very much would, yes. But I suppose it would be harder to keep all the children – and cubs,” he added not-so-graciously “–in line without comforting lies like that, wouldn’t it? Much easier to keep them in their cradles, in their places, if you tell them the world will be fair, will follow the rules.” Antonin’s lip curled in a sneer. He took a step closer, the sneer fading into a smirk, his eyes roaming across Castor’s weary face. “Keeps them meek and mild and obedient – tame, one might say. Doesn’t it?” They were so close now he could taste the other man’s breath; was that a hint of alcohol or was he imagining it, making assumptions from the state of the other man’s tired eyes? Perhaps it merely lingered on his robes – or on Antonin’s own robes, from his visit that afternoon to Ganymede; did he remember someone bumping up and spilling something on him? Had he changed since then? It was so hard to keep track, these days… Well, Castor would be able to smell the sweet herbs and sour spices of Antonin’s latest brew on his, so what did it matter? They were all sinners together, here.

“They find out the truth soon enough though, don’t they?” Don’t we? he didn’t say – didn’t bother saying it. There wasn’t a werewolf alive who didn’t know the world was unfair, and as for Antonin…well, all his illusions of fairness had died with Antonin. No way for Castor to know that; would he dare ask Antonin what he knew of unfairness, a wealthy pure-blood like him? If he did, would Antonin answer? Or would he hex Castor’s throat out? He didn’t know. These days, it was so hard for him to tell which way he was going to jump…so hard to see himself clearly through the fog of those potions, or the ache of the inevitable withdraw…

Castor’s eyes looked huge in the sliver of moonlight. Antonin smiled at him, slow and languid and dangerous. “You can curtsy if you like,” he said quietly. “Seems a bit prim and proper for the likes of you though, doesn’t it? Of course, maybe that’s what makes it fun – be something you aren’t for a minute, hmm? Put on pretense, a bit of play-acting. Stirs the blood, that sort of play – doesn’t it?” He leaned in closer, so close now that their limbs nearly touched each time one of them breathed. He lifted a hand and toyed with a lock of Castor’s hair – fur? Did you call it hair on a werewolf, even when they were man-shaped? Such interesting questions Castor presented!

“So tell me, puppy….Castor.” Antonin’s thin smile was a sliver of teeth. “What kind of pretend do you like to play?”

Well, at least Dolohov seemed to be enjoying himself. Made one of them. The one that mattered, at the moment. The one that spent his spare time blasting muggleborns and halfbreeds and Aurors to pieces, given the opportunity. So long as Remus kept this maniac from raising the alarm. And, obviously, avoided being smeared across Nott’s lawn in a flash of spell-light. Antonin fucking Dolohov, he still couldn’t believe it. Of all the people, in all the world, to be looming his way, husky and grasping and - and close enough that Remus could feel himself trembling, down to the tendons, with the urge to bolt. Or bite, maybe. His jaw had tightened up, nervously. Fight or flight, as they said. He wasn’t a creature that liked to be crowded. 

Cubs. Ernie. He thought of Ernie, abruptly, burbling and dozing in his arms. Cubs, something about that, just… a sliver of a word, it was, a sting under his skin. “Don’t have much choice,” Remus sniffed, shrugged, with coiled shoulders. “Truth’s never that far off, eh? As for playing pretend, I don’t,” he dropped that, solidly. “Done too much fucking pretending, in my life.” Talk about truth. Not that Remus had any way out of all the lying - any way that would be better, at least. Castor seemed to think he did, though. Good for him. Lunatic. Remus turned his head, forcing himself to follow along with those fingers that had come creeping up, into his hair. That hand would happily, gleefully, hex him apart; here it was, petting him, like he was a straying collie at the dog park. He pinned that too-confident smile in place, tasting acid, stomach well and truly turned. 

“When it’s up to me,” he breathed, in, out, steady, steady, “that’s all I am. Me. In all my off-leash glory, yeah?” That meant something, to Greyback’s wolves. That was his sick stroke of genius, really. Giving it meaning. Their loss, their pain. He’d seen it, as they spoke. A wild, scrabbling light, in their eyes; the hope of people who’d had none, for ages. But if surviving the bite made them special, made them strong - well, that was the start of something new, wasn’t it? It wasn’t some cursed fluke, now. It wasn’t the work of St. Mungo’s, or some other healer. It was power. Theirs. Something they could use. Or, more rightly, that Fenrir could use. That Voldemort, in the end, took full, ruthless advantage of. 

Eye to eye with Antonin, Remus tilted in. Pulled there, not by Dolohov - by a sound. Just, just far enough away that even he could barely catch it. Might have been his imagination, even. Might have. He held Antonin’s gaze, tightly, focused entirely elsewhere. Shit. Yes, there it was, again - the telltale hiss-shriek of some sort of spell, thrown off through the night air. Meaning something had gone wrong. And someone was in trouble. 

Time to finish this.

“You get it? Means I’m not your fucking petrificus totalus.” A snarl of a whisper, a snap of his wrist, and the spell cracked out - right into Dolohov’s hip, tapped directly home by that wand Antonin had been conveniently ignoring. Heart drumming in his ears, Remus caught the Death Eater by his collar, stumbling to counter the board-stiff deadweight. Couldn’t risk anybody hearing that tell-tale thud, a body to the ground. Couldn’t risk anybody finding him, either; whatever was going on, they didn’t want Dolohov to get involved. Silent as the man he’d just petrified, Remus dragged him off between the gone-to-seed hedgerows and kicked him under a sprawling, half-dead azalea. Hard. Glad he’d worn his workboots. Great, heavy things. Bastard. Fucking bastard! That done, stowed out of sight, he tore away into the dark, tapping his phoenix tag to life. Off to bigger problems. And absolutely relieved at the thought, honestly. As awful as that felt…

END.

#ah ha ha ha yes this is perfect! #dolohol is going to be so perky the next time he runs into remus too omg #so just positively delighted that puppy's flirtation has teeth omg #because you know: petrifying someone tossing them in the bushes #and giving them a good kick = flirting right? #(lucius tried okay...he tried) #(dolohov is a lost cause) #character: antonin dolohov #c: keep your eyes peeled (lookouts) #silveranddittany #date: dec | 1981 | 1 #END

[mortemrevelio]

silveranddittany‌:

It wasn’t getting any easier - keeping himself even, open, like this was just another bloody workday. A slaughter. It wouldn’t be. James could handle himself. Sirius, too. Alice was an Auror. They’d be fine. And when they were all back at the Potter place, and he’d scrubbed this bastard’s company off himself, it’d be them and some stupid, sinister, soon to be useless heirloom. Like as not hideous. Maybe, once it was disenchanted, James could keep it as a doorstop. A paperweight. Sirius might joke about mailing it off to the Minister, an early Christmas present. There’d be laughing, and he’d breathe again. Soon. 

If he could just slither his way through this. Puppy. That was one thing, one sickly, sticky little thing. But the poking and prodding, the torture. For his filthy friends. Prattled on about like it was the new BBC special. Tough to swallow. Remus did it, though. Managed. “’Course, yeah. We going to do that here, are we?” He threw a disbelieving look over at Nott’s… once-glorious manor. New, and a werewolf; Castor might be able to get away with stupid, useful questions. “Suppose he doesn’t much mind the state of his carpets, does he?” A few bloodstains would only add to the ambiance, wouldn’t it? Place was only a few bats away from Bram Stoker, as it was. And to think, the Notts had a child. A baby, in there. With these people. 

His head swiveled back, slowly, as the Death Eater’s hand rose. No wand; just… Remus’ eyes ticked down to those fingers, up, to dark, not-so-drunken eyes. Still sharp, this one. Sharp and very, very near. He nodded, faintly. “You’d think.” Wouldn’t you? What else, what else was he going to say, to this - the fuck was he up to now? A - oh. Shit. That hand, swiping his. That mouth, on the back of his knuckles. Right. Now, now he could see the shape of all this, yes. No mistake. Bloody hell. Getting eyes made at him, by one of Voldemort’s own. 

That was one thing. But the name. The fucking name. Antonin. One he’d seen on the list. One he’d heard stories about. Ugly stories, with body counts. Antonin Dolohov. He cleared his throat, suddenly, awfully fever-warm. Antonin Dolohov was playing the gentleman at him, and it was like - like somebody was walking over his grave, that was the saying. Saw it in some American book. Remus couldn’t help the shiver; but he could throw all the deceit in him, every gram, into a lazy smirk, the lift of an eyebrow - cocky, some play in it. Fucking with the worst kind of fire, here. Could send the whole bloody operation up in smoke, if he mishandled things. That was Dolohov’s specialty, after all; making messes. The explosive sort. “All mine, mate,” he rasped. “Afraid I’m not up on my courtly manners. This where I’m meant to give you a curtsy?” 

The werewolf seemed uncomfortable, out of his element. Good. Keep the beast off-balance, tease him and toy with him...just like he would a Mudblood, only not really, was it? Because this was no ignorant bit of mud, no blind Muggle without an inkling of what really went on in the world -- this was a wix, a proper wizard once upon a time before the bite and the curse. Castor was tainted, ruined -- but not stupid. Wouldn’t be trusted to guard Josiah’s house if he was stupid. Wouldn’t even be trusted to set foot on the grounds if he was stupid.

The mere fact that Josiah Nott, of all people, was willing to tolerate some filthy pup on his land -- that said that while Castor might be new and skittish, he was no fool. Had Greyback recommended him? Would Josiah have paid any mind to the recommendation of a beast like that? No -- but he’d listen to the Dark Lord, wouldn’t he? Had Lord Voldemort himself sent little Castor here, sniffing around? What for? To get a fresh perspective on Josiah? But no -- the man was a fanatic, devoted to the cause without question; if there were no Dark Lord, no Death Eaters, old Josiah would be out there hunting down mudbloods for sport on his own, Antonin had no doubt. So if it wasn’t Nott’s loyalty the Dark Lord had sent Castor here to poke at...what was his purpose?

Maybe it was just to tweak the old bastard’s tail. Antonin wouldn’t put pettiness like that past the Dark Lord -- it was one of the things he liked best about him.

So, send Nott and the others off to lay a trap for their enemies, then send Castor here to watch the house and keep it safe from non-existent threats...all to make Josiah squirm at the thought of a werewolf in his garden. Laughter bubbled up on Antonin’s lips and burst out, raw and hoarse and heartfelt -- a downright guffaw of grim delight.

“I would,” he agreed cheerfully, “I very much would, yes. But I suppose it would be harder to keep all the children -- and cubs,” he added not-so-graciously “--in line without comforting lies like that, wouldn’t it? Much easier to keep them in their cradles, in their places, if you tell them the world will be fair, will follow the rules.” Antonin’s lip curled in a sneer. He took a step closer, the sneer fading into a smirk, his eyes roaming across Castor’s weary face. “Keeps them meek and mild and obedient -- tame, one might say. Doesn’t it?” They were so close now he could taste the other man’s breath; was that a hint of alcohol or was he imagining it, making assumptions from the state of the other man’s tired eyes? Perhaps it merely lingered on his robes -- or on Antonin’s own robes, from his visit that afternoon to Ganymede; did he remember someone bumping up and spilling something on him? Had he changed since then? It was so hard to keep track, these days... Well, Castor would be able to smell the sweet herbs and sour spices of Antonin’s latest brew on his either way, so what did it matter? They were all sinners together, here.

“They find out the truth soon enough though, don’t they?” Don’t we? he didn’t say -- didn’t bother saying it. There wasn’t a werewolf alive who didn’t know the world was unfair, and as for Antonin...well, all his illusions of fairness had died with Antonin. No way for Castor to know that; would he dare ask Antonin what he knew of unfairness, a wealthy pure-blood like him? If he did, would Antonin answer? Or would he hex Castor’s throat out? He didn’t know. These days, it was so hard for him to tell which way he was going to jump...so hard to see himself clearly through the fog of those potions, or the ache of the inevitable withdraw...

Castor’s eyes looked huge in the sliver of moonlight. Antonin smiled at him, slow and languid and dangerous. “You can curtsy if you like,” he said quietly. “Seems a bit prim and proper for the likes of you though, doesn’t it? Of course, maybe that’s what makes it fun -- be something you aren’t for a minute, hmm? Put on pretense, a bit of play-acting. Stirs the blood, that sort of play -- doesn’t it?” He leaned in closer, so close now that their limbs nearly touched each time one of them breathed. He lifted a hand and toyed with a lock of Castor’s hair -- fur? Did you call it hair on a werewolf, even when they were man-shaped? Such interesting questions Castor presented!

“So tell me, puppy....Castor.” Antonin’s thin smile was a sliver of teeth. “What kind of pretend do you like to play?”

#i have way too much fun with the fact that dolohov and mulciber had the same first name i'm sorry #character: antonin dolohov #silveranddittany #c: keep your eyes peeled (lookouts) #date: dec | 1981 | 1

[mortemrevelio]

silveranddittany‌:

He didn’t. But an agreeable nod, a distant “oh, aye,” that would do. Didn’t mean anything. Didn’t have to. PThis was just so much shoptalk. With a Death Eater. Merlin.

He’d done it before, or something like it, anyway. Those packs Dumbledore sent him out to, most of them were half-gone to the Dark Lord as it was. Half or worse. His mission hadn’t, in fact, been anything like secreting refugees away. The headmaster had needed a fucking spy. Remus was there to listen, notice, and learn. Whoever he was pretending to be was there to find a way forward, to follow whatever path seemed surer, safer, stronger. He was reaching for them, now, those people he could be. What made it so crushing was this: how close they were. How much sense they could make.

Good thing, too. Because what came next hit like a beater’s bat, and that simple, awful sense was all that kept him in place. That, and the white-hot, feverish knowledge that he couldn’t fuck this up, for the sake of the Order, and their work, tonight. Couldn’t. 

One of Fenrir’s pups.

It rung in his ears, the way a concussion would’ve. “That’s right, yeah.” With a solid, hard nod, Remus cracked out something like a grin; like someone’s, maybe, but not his. This was bolder - made for those pack animals who wouldn’t trust a new member until they saw you riled up for the moon, eager to run wild. Until they saw you proud, ferociously one of them. Fearless. Ready to fucking hurt something. Made him sick enough to shake, those nights did. Every time. Grateful for the gloom, Remus fought the frantic urge to look back for Mary, hoping, desperately, that she wasn’t close enough to have heard. Best to stay watching that Death Eater, though. Might be a drunk, but if his spellwork was half as quick as his connections, Remus was far from sure about his chances. Far. 

With that smirk on, holding his ground was easier - he’d had to, with the wolves. To keep his throat intact, and earn what passed for trust, out there. “Suppose so,” Remus huffed. “Pity, us missin’ out on the hunting.” That’s what they wanted from their werewolves, yeah? What they expected? Some appetite. Bit of bloodthirst. Had to live up to Greyback’s example, after all. But what the fuck would Fenrir Greyback do, here? Remus stayed put, stock still, as the space between them burned off to, well… very nearly nothing. Wasn’t at all what he’d figure would follow someone, anyone, nevermind one of the Dark Lord’s own, sorting out his secrets. Couldn’t decide, really, if this reaction was worse than the one he’d expected. Mostly because he wasn’t entirely sure what this was.

“How do I like it?” What had they said, those believers? The ones that turned his stomach. The ones he’d had to sound like. Remus wrung out a laugh, shaking his head. “It’s - been a revelation, hey? You grow up, you go to school, and all the while - you do what you’re told. Think you understand what’s possible, think you know what can be done. Until the world turns. And you realize how bloody wrong you were.” How stupidly hopeful. “Then, after everything, you’ve got fuck all to show for playing by all the rules. So you take it, or… or you’ve got to find yourself some new rules, don’t you?” 

Don’t you? 

The best lies were based on truths. Saw that in a book, somewhere. Remus knew he couldn’t have managed it any other way; he didn’t have it in him to spin stories out of nothing, like some people. Too much self-doubt, for that. No, he had to start with a scrap of something real. Like anger. That had been it, more and more, as the months went on. Because he had so fucking much to spare, welling up. Seemed like if you sunk some genuine piece of yourself into the foundation, you could build some hideous, unfamiliar things, and still have a hope of them holding at least a while.

That’s what he needed, tonight. Just an ugly while. He swallowed - chalkdust dry, sour - and finished. “I like these rules. Think they suit me better.” That was the answer Castor had come to. With such certainty. Funny, when your fake selves see it all clearer than you do. Castor had found himself a horrific alternative. Remus? His fingers were slipping around hope, these days. But it was Castor who lifted his chin, met those roaming eyes, and smiled, right back. That conjured, canine smile. Quizzical, but sharp. “Now, if I might ask…” Polite, yes. Couldn’t forget who he was talking to, here, or fail to account for the lines they were likely to draw. There were Dark Wix, and Dark Creatures, after all. Lines he couldn’t threaten if he was hoping to keep this unremarkable. “Who wants to know?” 

.

The werewolf didn’t look happy to be called-out -- or maybe he just didn’t like being labelled as subservient to Fenrir Greyback. (Was there dissension in the pack? Some jockeying for power, maybe, or just general discontent? Interesting. Antonin filed the possibility away to consider later.) For now, he focused on Castor -- his grin more like a baring of teeth, which was so appropriate it almost felt overdone. Antonin replied with a matching grin of his own anyway. Maybe Castor was playing-up his part on purpose; maybe the man just had a natural flair for melodrama -- or maybe that was Antonin’s sense of drama at work, adding nuances that reality didn’t support. Did it matter? Either way, it was fun.

Antonin barked a laugh, harsh and pitiless. “Not much of a hunt, if all goes as planned -- more of a slaughter.” His grin widened, sharp and blood-hungry, and he found himself wishing that he had gone with the others tonight. He wouldn’t have minded a chance to throw some Curses at those self-righteous, anarchist hypocrites...but at least he had some entertainment of his own here, instead. “Don’t fret though, puppy,” he continued cheekily. “Orders are for survivors to be dragged along so we can poke and prod and rattle their brains around until they give us the keys to finding the rest of their filthy friends.”

That was, of course, only if all did go according to plan, and one could never be sure of such a thing when there was a battle involved...but this wasn’t a battle; it was a trap. All his fellow Death Eaters had to do was spring it, and then overwhelming numbers and skill would take care of the rest. The two or three targets they were expecting wouldn’t stand a chance; the only real kink in the plot would be if over-enthusiasm got the better of the others, and they killed them all before they could remember to take one alive.

Still, even that outcome wouldn’t be anything to cry over; there would always be another day, another fight, after this. (As long as she wasn’t there...but she didn’t seem to stick her head out very often, did she? Not that Antonin could track, anyway. Besides, she was canny enough to get herself out of danger, wasn’t she? Had been canny enough to kill Antonin, and that couldn’t have been easy; Antonin had spared with Antonin often enough to know the younger wizard’s skills...) Realizing he was letting his thoughts wander, Antonin shook himself back to the present -- bloody brain-fogging potion -- and ran a finger lightly along the shoulder of Castor’s robes, almost like he was checking for dust on the furnishings.

“A revelation, hmm?” Antonin dropped his voice a little, tone still too rough to be considered soft but quieter. More intimate. The kind of low-volume half-whisper that made a person lean-in instinctively to hear better. “I feel the same. Funny.” He did, that was the odd part -- odd, to find himself in such genuine commiseration with a beast like a werewolf...but Castor spoke true. Fuck all to show, indeed. All Antonin had was a dead friend and a life in tatters. “You’d think eventually they’d stop feeding people that bollocks, all that rules and fairness bullshit and just start telling it like it is from the start.” A shadow of grief moved behind Antonin’s eyes, leeching the smirk from his face and leaving in its place nothing but the aching emptiness that was slowly eating him from the inside-out -- but that grief was a constant now, and while it was impossible to banish it was getting easier and easier to shut it away behind the mask he wore now even when the Dark Lord’s silver one remained unconjured.

He smiled again, sharp and jagged and on some fundamental level broken, and suddenly the grief was gone and the game was back in its place. “How rude of me though, not to introduce myself.” Wearing a grin smug enough to give Lucy pangs of envy, he caught one of Castor’s hands -- paws? -- the one without his wand, of course, because Antonin wasn’t an idiot nor quite that rude, as to manhandle someone’s wand-arm without asking; he bent over it to drop a kiss, as though Castor were some delicate witch at the latest gala ball. “Antonin. That’s me. And let me say, it’s a real pleasure to meet you.”

#my music shuffle started playing ''brave enough (to love you)'' while i was writing this and i just.... #no music player no; you have misread this situation SO MUCH #silveranddittany #character: antonin dolohov #c: keep your eyes peeled (lookouts) #date: dec | 1981 | 1

[mortemrevelio]

silveranddittany‌:

Absolutely plastered. Remus was trying to gauge just how trashed the other man was - he’d got good at that, with himself, anyway. Or, at least, he’d figured he had. The art of drinking just enough to get by, unnoticed. Was it happening more often, maybe? Did it matter, if nobody saw? Yes. And yes. But he wasn’t at it on the job. Not really. Not like this. 

Was the Death Eater in front of him too blasted to be taken at all seriously, though? Quiet as a tomb; that was good, no trouble inside. So far. As for the rest, well, sounded like their not so little diversions were doing what they were meant to do - spread the bastards thin, chasing phoenixes. Not that Remus was happy, exactly, at the thought. Not when those birds included James and Sirius, specifically. Just had to hope they’d come home with all their feathers still on. 

Couldn’t fret about that. No. They were doing their job. He had his. Here, now. Everyone had to pull through, do their bit, or everyone was fucked. As per usual, with these things.

Oh, he hadn’t missed the missions. At least when he’d been out on his own, it was just his life on the line. That was easier to bear. Much. 

Remus scraped out a chuckle of his own, low, dry. Hope springs. “Yeah, right enough…” Now, what could he say, here, to learn something, anything useful, without bollocksing up his end of the mission anymore than he already might have? “Castor.” A John or Brendan wouldn’t cut it, here. Purebloods liked their names, like every other bloody thing about them, to stand out. Hopefully the first classical handle that came to mind would be suit. “Otherwise known as your back up, mate, yeah, auxiliary. An’ you can’t place me because I’ve been nowhere. Only came on board over the weekend.” He sniffed - Merlin, whatever this bastard had been sipping was fucking rank - and cracked his neck. Running too hot, too tight. Same as when he was with the wolves, lying, lying, lying. Remus was an experienced liar, but experience didn’t mean it came naturally. It didn’t. At all. Never had. Some things didn’t change. “Nott’s nervous, is he? What for - how much, ah, how much trouble are we expecting, you think?” How much trouble could this posh, pissed bastard be, if it came to that? And it might.  

.

“Oh, you know old Josiah, he’s always been a fuss-pot,” Antonin said dismissively, although he wasn’t sure of any such thing; if this fellow was a mere auxiliary, he might well be the sort who moved in circles nowhere near the lofty stations that held men like Josian Nott -- and should have held Antonin Dolohov as well, and did, but not exclusively. Unlike prissy Josiah, Antonin had no qualms at all about slumming it...no, no qualms at all. But there were limits to how far even he would dip, and the Dark Lord drew the dregs of his forces from sources low and murky indeed, sometimes. Of what sort was this one?

Antonin narrowed his eyes, forcing the blurry world into focus, and raked his gaze up and down the other man, assessing. There wasn’t much light out here -- a fragment of moon, a thick scattering of stars, the distant glow of the houselights spilling weakly across the detritus of the garden -- so it was hard to make out his features properly, but Antonin thought the other wix looked worn. (Not that he looked much better himself on the rare occasions he bothered to let himself look in a mirror; looked much worse, in fact, prematurely aged by grief and...other things.) Worn man, worn robes, worn voice...

And the moon overhead, less than full. That cinched it: werewolf. Antonin grinned, showing his teeth. “One of Fenrir’s pups, are you?” he asked -- a deadly insult if the man wasn’t, but Antonin wasn’t worried. He wasn’t as given to boasting and bravado as, say, Lucius (who was?) but he knew his strengths, and chief among those was his skill with a wand. His skill not just at dueling, but at destroying. Antonin had a knack for the nastier brands of magic and even when he was befuddled by bad potions or worse withdraw, he’d never been so far out of his wits that he’d been incapable of carving someone else into pieces. No scruffy werewolf would stand a chance...and Antonin would, frankly, relish the excuse to skin one of the mangy bastards.

There were certain levels of filth too far even for him to fancy...maybe. He took another look at the other wizard -- Castor. No surname; perhaps he didn’t have one he was entitled to use, any longer. A wizard from a decent family, cast-out when he failed to avoid a nasty bite and its nastier Curse, cut off from the line and the name, now scraping for scraps at the Death Eaters’ table... And not bad-looking, either, for all that he had an air of something the cat dragged in about him. That kind of aching, threadbare aesthetic wasn’t necessarily a downside, in Antonin’s book. He knew it was the potions talking, in part, inspiring the most reckless and foolhardy aspects of his nature -- but still.

Perhaps this waste of a night might be fun, after all.

Antonin stretched, cracking out his stiff joints, and fixed Castor with another smile. (It had a lot of teeth, too, but if his surmise about the other man’s pedigree was accurate, he’d be used to teeth, wouldn’t he?) “You don’t need to fret, rookie,” he said in a voice that held very little reassurance. “I doubt we’ll see any trouble at all. Those blood-traitor scum are going to be far too busy trying to keep themselves alive to have any wands to spare coming after us here.” He chuckled, a low and sordid sound, and ambled closer to the other wizard. “But it was nice of Josiah to arrange for some back-up for me anyway. Thoughtful fellow, isn’t he?” He wasn’t. But that wasn’t the point of the statement.

Antonin closed to within a scant few inches of Castor -- closer than propriety said was appropriate to stand, especially to a stranger. “So tell me, Castor...how are you liking it?”

#omg he's SO SMARMY i'm sorry! #silveranddittany #character: antonin dolohov #event 02 #c: keep your eyes peeled (lookouts)

[mortemrevelio]

Antonin was bored. He never should have volunteered to stay behind and watch bloody Josiah’s bloody house -- but he’d realized halfway though their little council of war in preparation for the ambush that he was in no fit state to be Apparating anywhere, especially if he were to be expected to fight when he arrived.

His latest batch of potions had not turned out as well as the previous one. A less reasonable man might have held the potioneer to account, but Antonin knew that the brews he demanded -- their constantly evolving nature as his system adapted, as the levels needed to affect him properly intensified -- were experimental, and even a genius with a cauldron like Severus Snape was bound to stumble now and again.

Antonin stumbled, just now, as he meandered through the overgrown tangle of garden that ringed Josiah’s house. “Never thought I’d miss Lucy’s overly-manicured hedges,” he muttered to himself with a chuckle, “but even those bloody blasted birds would liven this crypt of a place up a bit...” It was no place to raise a child, either -- no more fitting for the little boy who’d been born here last year than it was for the cheerful young wife that Josiah had installed here once the appropriate mourning period for the last one was done.

“Dodgy old tosser,” he added for emphasis, tossing the insult in the general direction in which he fancied Nott and the rest of the crew had Disapparated. It might not have been; he had managed to get himself quite turned around, somehow. Well, it wasn’t as though he actually needed to be on guard -- who from? Josiah was a prick, but he was a respectable prick; a real pillar of the community...if one could be a pillar from a disapproving distance, at least. Nobody was going to come knocking about the place, looking for trinkets or trouble. But volunteering to keep an eye out just in case had made for an admirable excuse for Antonin’s absence from tonight’s mission.

He wondered if Josiah knew; the man was an absolute arse, but he respected a fellow’s blood and convictions. He understood that there were some topics that just weren’t raised. He might well have seen right through Antonin’s fake-concern -- “You’ve got a real bit of nasty tucked away in there right now; wouldn’t like to think of anything else nasty coming looking for it, finding the wife and heir instead...” -- and agreed anyway, just to help him save face. He’d never have said as much aloud, of course; no softness from Josiah Nott -- not where people might see it, anyway, but he was the sort who’d be inclined to help a fellow gentleman save face...

Antonin nearly planted his right into the ground when an unexpected voice broke through his rambling thoughts. “Ahhh....yes,” he managed to reply eventually, blinking in a failed attempt to bring the other wizard’s features into focus. He glanced down at the bottle in his hand with a betrayed glare; he’d thought a fresh dose might help him shake off the mugginess of the last draught, but instead it was if anything making things worse. With a grimace, Antonin shoved the bottle back into the pockets of his robes and turned to face the other man. “Quiet as a tomb over here, too,” he laughed -- slightly forced, slightly slurred, but amiable. “Bit premature, probably; I doubt the others have managed to kill any of them yet...but hope springs eternal and all that, what?”

Who the hell was this? He didn’t seem to fit the place at all...but who else would be here tonight, would be asking questions like that? Ah, well, no sense pretending he was more in the loop than he actually was; no shame in admitting genuine confusion. “So who are you, then? Don’t think I can quite place the face -- not in the dark like this anyway, ha ha.” He squinted, trying to focus. “Josiah bring in some auxiliary forces, did he?”

@mortemrevelio​

The Nott property reminded Remus of places he’d been - in American books, at least. Hurston. Faulkner. They took you to these sprawling houses, stately in a twilit sort of way, fading at the edges. Rotten at the core. He couldn’t say he admired it, even setting present circumstances aside. Somewhere so opulent shouldn’t feel so… so bleak. For all his reading, Remus wasn’t poetic enough to blame it on seeping evil, or some such. Just poor repair. Apparently, the Notts had other things to spend their galleons on. Like high iron fences. Those, he’d noticed, were in excellent shape.

Luckily enough, they also hadn’t spared much effort on maintaining the gardens. Meaning there were plenty of stretches of overgrown landscaping and under-manicured copses of forest to sneak through. Which suited him and Ingrid Teesling, the older Hufflepuff he’d been sent out with, just fine. They’d dressed dark and kept quiet, circling around and through the estate. The night was thoroughly on them, now, deep, blue-black, barely a sliver of moon in the sky. Perfect. There wasn’t much to see, them included. Not much to hear, either, besides the gentle rustle of the breeze, the occasional pit-pat of mice or some such skittering around in the underbrush. And - shit. A cough. Close. Remus froze, wand out. Looking for movement, listening for footfalls, breaking twigs. Anything. There, somebody strolling about, closer to the house. Stopping. Head cocked, their way - Remus’ way, at least. Bollocks. Nothing for it. Except a hex. But… but he’d wait, on that. They hadn’t seen a bloody soul, yet. This was out of place, at the least. Worth investigating. Not that he had much choice. 

Ingrid had been hanging back, but he could feel her, close enough; Remus waved her away, subtly, hand in the ferns, as he strode forward. Chest tight, heart all a-rattle like a coursing greyhound’s. Be less suspicious to come out head high, story ready, than slink into the woods again. Right? As for the story… in progress. Perimeter security? They’d snuck by some, already, hard-eyed wix pacing around that old pitch… 

Remus threw off a sharp wave, squinting through the gloom as he brushed past a wild burst of wisteria, a broken-down trellis. Was - was that a bottle? Had he caught a Death Eater out drinking? Presumably a Death Eater. Dressed like he had money, so. Not likely to be one of the staff. Remus drew closer, carefully. Wand at his side. Casual. “You lot havin’ a quiet night, in there? Dead, on our end.” Could only hope it would stay that way…

#sorry this got suuuuuper long ha ha #happens every time i have to set a scene whoops! #please ignore! we can keep the rest of it much shorter i am sure! XD #character: antonin dolohov #event 02 #silveranddittany #c: keep your eyes peeled (lookouts) #date: dec | 1981 | 1 #location: nott home (exterior)

[mortemrevelio]

Life magazine, February 1916

#oh look there's literally ONE THING in which lucius ISN'T a coward HUH #etc #queue the mask and raise the mark

[mortemrevelio]

properpureblood-emma‌:

Emma smiled politely as she stood in the coatroom. “Well, honestly, I’ve never actually been. I’m not meeting anyone. I don’t actually know if I know anyone who goes here. Other than you, apparently. Ganymede’s, you said it was called?” She asked, glancing around as she handed him her cloak. “I really just wanted to thank you for the other evening. I don’t know what would have happened to me if it wasn’t for you.”

She took his arm, glancing around for some sort of insight as to what this place had in store. She had to think that if someone such as Antonin Dolohov was about to enter, it was respectable for purebloods to be seen there. She should be alright. 

.

“Never been?” Antonin repeated, the exclamation coming out as equal parts surprised and delighted. Had he been considerably more sober, he might have taken that as a warning sign and ushered her right back out the door and back onto the street; had he been even a little more sober he might have at least thought to warn her what she was about to walk into -- but he wasn’t, and he didn’t. All he said instead was, “Well! We’ll have to fix that tragic little oversight, won’t we?”

He winked at her as he led her forward to the inner door that separated the drab, discreet entry hall from the salacious delights within. “I assure you, Miss Vanity, no thanks are necessary; any gentleman would have done the same in my place, and it was my pleasure and my honor to be able to assist you.” It was no less than Antonin would have wanted, after all -- just like, Antonin assured himself, his decision to introduce the charming Miss Emma Vanity to the wonders that awaited.

“Antonin was a frequent patron here as well, you know,” he added, too happy with life at the moment to speak about his dead friend with anything but the slightest twinge of obligatory sadness. “I think you’ll like it -- everyone does.” Thus grinning, he pushed the double doors open and led Emma forward into the tumult and beauty within.

(Un)Pleasant Surprises

#it took me five tries to upload that gif #apparently tumblr itself is trying to protect emma by stopping dolohov lol #date: nov | 1981 | 5 #c: (un)pleasant surprises #properpureblood-emma #character: antonin dolohov

[mortemrevelio]

properpureblood-emma‌:

It was as good a day as any to run errands. Emma walked along Diagon Alley, a pleasant smile on her face as she snuggled into her green cloak to fight off the chill. Her recent conversations with Dorcas and Narcissa floating through her mind as she walked, a perfect opportunity presented itself in the form of a passing wizard. 

Antonin Dolohov, of all people. 

She had a momentary debate with herself, finally deciding to turn and follow him. A tiny conversation couldn’t hurt, and might even provide her with some interesting insight. 

Spinning on her heel, she changed direction and followed, weaving between the crowd. “Mister Dolohov,” She called as he climbed the stairs to a building. She’d probably passed the structure innumerable times, but she’d never actually been inside. She didn’t have a clue as to what it was, but clearly, it must have been open.

Climbing the stairs after him, she opened the door of the quaint townhouse. She looked around, slowly stepping inside. Still quite unsure of herself, she walked in, catching a glimpse of the very person she was following from the corner of her eye. “Mister Dolohov,” She called again. This time, he turned and saw her. She offered him a soft smile and a little wave, but now she was insatiably curious as to what exactly this place was. 

.

“Fancy running into you again so soon,” Antonin said, grinning down and ignoring the way Emma Vanity seemed to shimmer slightly around the edges -- a new side-effect of his potions no doubt, since even as out-of-touch as Antonin was with what young witches Emma’s age considered fashionable, he doubted that making themselves shimmer was something being done on purpose. He wasn’t overly-troubled by it, though; as far as side-effects went, a bit of extra gleam to the world was nothing to fret over. Especially not when he was about to enter Ganymede, where there was plenty of actual shimmering to behold.

“I must say,” he continued, enunciating carefully to keep from slurring his words -- a skill he had had a great deal of practice honing -- “I didn’t realize that Ganymede was your kind of place.” Antonin winked broadly and held out a hand to hang her cloak for her.

“Would be it gauche of me to ask if you’re meeting someone here?” he continued. “Not meaning to pry, of course--” It wasn’t the sort of place for prying, a quality of the club that Antonin himself thoroughly approved of. “But I would not want to cause any confusion or distress by offering myself as an escort, yet I would be more than happy to take up the job if so invited, at least until you come across a more desirable partner or partners.”

He held out his elbow for proper, polite escorting purposes -- probably the first time he had ever escorted a woman around Ganymede, he realized with a silent inner chuckle.

(Un)Pleasant Surprises

#date: nov | 1981 | 5 #c: (un)pleasant surprises #properpureblood-emma #character: antonin dolohov

[mortemrevelio]

Lucius Malfoy wasn’t the sort of wix who had a job -- not the sort of job that entailed keeping regular hours (or days) of employment, or worrying about profit margins and personnel. But he did do a lot of business (and a lot of “business”) and having somewhere to meet people outside the home was occasionally a necessity. To that end, he kept offices located so conveniently near the Ministry that with the right spell, one could have hopped straight from his premises to theirs -- if one could break through the night-unbreakable protection spells guarding the Ministry’s borders, and if one were clever enough to bring a broomstick to carry one down the several stories drop between the converted townhouse where Lucius’s offices were located and the underground environs of the Ministry of Magic beneath him.

Convenient location or not, pressing business or not, Lucius would not have been here on such a day as this had Narcissa not instructed him to get out of her hair and give her a few hours peace, darling, before I’m forced to resort to hexes. A certain amount of fussing and hovering after the ordeal that she had just suffered seemed perfectly natural to Lucius, and to Narcissa as well -- but they had different ideas of precisely what that amount was. And so here he sat, penning yet another furious letter to The Daily Prophet about the dangerous hooligans who had ruined his publicity stunt with that blasted fountain -- and beginning to concoct what was sure to be a brilliant scheme to make an even bigger stunt out of the ruins of this...

Musings that were interrupted by a knock at his door. Lucius looked up with a furious scowl, but that evaporated at the words that followed. “Oh, splendid,” Lucius said, flicking his wand at the door to swish it open. “In, in, in,” he commanded brightly. “Tell me all about it -- whatever it is. I’m all ears.” A frown that was really more of a pout marred his cheerful grin for a moment as he added, “Unless you’re here to complain I’m being too hard on your colleagues. I refuse to recant a single criticism for their botched handling of my gala, and nothing you can say will change my mind on the subject, Archie my dear.”

Lunch: The Mistress’ Meal

Monday, November 2nd, 1981, 11:14am

@mortemrevelio​

Archie hadn’t had the chance to enjoy the Ministry event. He’d gone to the event with his wife in order to visit with the Malfoys and keep appearances. He was a Macmillan after all and especially one that used to be rather close with Lucius. He was glad for an excuse to get dressed up. His teal suit had been ruined in the blast and his mask was little more than a singed piece of lace by the end of the night but he’d managed to get out of the scuffle with little damage. That bloody orange burn-healing paste was rather unattractive to use but it certainly did the job.

Despite it all, Archie still believed in Dorcas’ potential, even if that potential had blown what little anonymity the Order had. Now his job was more stressful and the Order was acting much like a shaken wasps nest. He needed to get out, get away from all of the tension and the in-fighting. The Order was good for some things but bringing Archie’s mood up was definitely not the best.

On his lunch break, Archie informed his secretary that he’d be taking a long lunch and to just leave any complaints on his desk because he definitely didn’t want to hear it and headed off to find Lucius to convince his friend of taking a long lunch as well. The way to Lucius’ office was familiar, Archie had definitely walked this path before. A gentle rap upon the wood was as natural as brushing his teeth.

“Mr. Malfoy? Your dear friend Archibald is requesting an audience with you.”

#c: lunch: the mistress' meal #aberrantarchie #date: nov | 1981 | 2 #character: lucius malfoy #headcanon: lucius's office

[mortemrevelio]

vulnussanentur‌:

cxradocdearborn‌ | CARADOC

Caradoc wasn’t technically any more stable than Narcissa, but when the woman wobbled by his side, he was quick to catch her and offer his side to lean against. She didn’t look any more hurt than he was, which was a relief. He needed to get her out of there and into some fresh air if she was up for it, and then he’d return and help others.

“Are you alright? You must’ve gotten up too quickly, let’s sit you down somewhere, okay?” But before he could stay true to his word, the familiar shriek of Lucius Malfoy cut through them.

He didn’t even try to stop the man from nearly tackling his wife to the ground, even if he was hesitant to let Narcissa go, based on how unstable she’d been on her feet before. Lucius’ petulant suspiciousness was met with a glare of his own, all of the warmth he’d offered Cissy now gone from his face as he talked to the other Malfoy. “That horrid statue had trapped Narcissa underneath it, I helped her out. That’s all.”

Only then he noticed Marlene, and he reached out to her with a relieved sigh, squeezing her shoulder. “Good to see you. What happened? Is everyone okay?”

Narcissa might have sagged more at the sound of Lucius screeching her name. There may have been a groan in there too. Not because she wasn’t happy for his well being, but even before he’d made it across the room she’d known what he would do and the pounding on her cranium simply wasn’t up for it. Still, she turned to meet up, letting him cling to her even as his grip further tore her robes.

“I’m fine, dearest,” she insisted, voice firm despite that weariness. Cissy nodded in agreement with Caradoc’s assessment, smiling at him even as she inwardly rolled her eyes at men and their need to glower at each other. She also didn’t protest the man calling the statue horrid. “Caradoc saved me,” she stressed, while keeping her hands firmly on Lucius’s shoulders to keep him from flinging himself at the man in a sudden mood swing of gratitude. Squeezing those shoulders, she gave her husband her most winning smile. “Why don’t you help me to the mediwitch tent, dearest,” Narcissa cooed. That would give him something to do besides squawk, and perhaps the witch would be able to think of something at least superficially useful for him to do rather than fuss over her.

Lucius’s entire demeanor reversed at Narcissa’s words -- not that all his worry went away just because she said she was fine (he generally took Cissy at her word no matter what, but when it came to her own well-being he couldn’t help but doubt her just a little until he had a second, expert opinion) but the panic ebbed to fretfulness. His attitude toward the two wix who had assisted he and his wife this far changed even more dramatically: Lucius went from suspicious (Caradoc) and dismissive (Marlene) to all smiles and delight.

“Of course, darling,” he said to Narcissa, rearranging his grip to offer her support instead of smothering, although the arm around her waist continued to be wrapped a bit tensely with lingering fear. He held her close as much for his own reassurance as to assist her and extended a hand first to Caradoc Dearborn and then to Marlene McKinnon. “We are much obliged to you both, thank you. You will pardon me if I do not stay to express my gratitude at proper length, I hope -- I must get my wife to that mediwix.”

He flashed them both his best beaming smile (somewhat deflated at the moment, given both the emotional circumstances and the state of his robes) before turning and sweeping Narcissa away -- and at that moment, as though maliciously keen to add insult to injury, the suppressed water gurgling in the ruined base of the fountain finally broke free of whatever had been curtailing its pressure, drenching both Malfoys.

Lucius was going to murder that sculptor.

END.

Pinning Predicament

#cxradocdearborn #vulnussanentur (cissy) #mmckinnxn #c: peacock in a panic #c: pinning predicament #character: lucius malfoy #END #at least for him #obviously anyone ELSE who has more to do please continue!

[mortemrevelio]

From The Peacock Pages:

Lucius was a wizard who was used to getting his way. He liked fine things, and he liked throwing parties, and he liked being entertained. He did not like people coming in and spoiling his little schemes by exploding lovely gold statutes he had spent a lot of money on and turning his publicity stunt of a party into an utter debacle.

He especially did not like when those debacles hurt his wife.

Under ordinary circumstances, Lucius would have allowed himself a dramatic swoon or three over his own injuries and moreso his dashed plans -- but these were not ordinary circumstances. Lucius had no time to swoon or mope while his beloved Narcissa was wounded -- never mind that it was little more than a scratch; to Lucius, a hangnail on her precious hand would have been a disaster, let alone being nearly crushed by a statue!

(His statue. At his party. That made it so much worse.)

Never a man for subtly, he reacted in characteristically grandiose fashion: covering nearly every flat surface of their manor home with a veritable jungle of flowers; leaving presents (jewelry, books, beautiful robes, framed photos of their son) all through the house like a trail of extravagantly-wrapped breadcrumbs; instructing the House Elves on pain of death to prepare nothing but her favorite dishes; stocking every room with a dozen extra pillows and cushions (selected to perfectly match the existing decor, of course!) for her to rest upon; hiring her favorite singer for an intimate concert in the gardens next weekend to lift her spirits; even silencing his beloved peacocks so their cries would not disturb her rest.

It wasn’t enough, of course, but nothing could be.

As for the rest of his time -- when he was dismissed from fussing over Cissy so she could have some peace and solitude -- Lucius spent it by writing scathing letters to The Daily Prophet and the Ministry both; visiting the Minister of Magic, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and the Head of the Magical Maintenance Department and expressing his shock and disappointment in person; and dancing attendance on the Dark Lord. This had, after all, been an event planned at his behest, and Lucius was determined to make sure that it was not seen as a failure -- but instead as an even greater success than hoped.

After all, did it not prove just how devoted Lucius Malfoy was to the ideals of magical unity to have his donation attacked by these malcontents? Did it not prove just how dangerous these uncivilized extremists were, and how trustworthy Lucius was in comparison? Did it not give credence to the veracity of this threat to their society that good, stalwart wix like Lucius Malfoy so strongly opposed? Did it not underscore how necessary it was for the Ministry to do something about these “Phoenix” rabble?

The events of the abortive dedication of the Fountain of Magical Brethren not only gave Lucius extra clout with both the government and the public; it gave him a platform with the citizens hungry for any news relating to the attack -- and Lucius was every bit as impassioned, and nearly as persuasive, in prose as in person. His letters in the Prophet were a great success in garnering public sympathy and suport -- and even the Dark Lord had to admit that he had turned the potentially disastrous situation entirely in their favor.

(Lucius started breathing again.)

He also sent elegant notes of gratitude, with enormous accompanying floral arrangements, to both Caradoc Dearborn and Marlene McKinnon in thanks for their assistance on the night of the disaster, of course. Lucius might be an unscrupulous manipulator, a blood-purist, a Death Eater, and a snob, but he was also a gentleman.

#from the peacock pages #character: lucius malfoy #event 01 part 02 #aftermath #etc