#〘ooc〙from beyond the bone eater's well.

[snapetrash]

so I wrote a crack fic where Snape and Harry smoke weed and talk about their problems. kinda.  It’s posted on Ao3 if you want to read it there. It’s pretty ooc and an adult smokes weed and tobacco with an underage student, so there’s your warning for moral ambiguity. Starts at the beginning of book 5, in an AU where everything is the same except Harry picks up a smoking habit to self medicate his slightly crippling anxiety and depression. Looking for a Beta so let me know if you’re interested!!!

Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys had been here for weeks while he had to deal with his relatives, and fucking demetors- what a load of bollocks. Harry dumped his trunk and bags in his room and made a beeline for the attic of Grimmauld Place, grabbing his pack of menthols and lighter as he went.

 They’d arrived at the Order headquarters a little after 2 am, so he knew no one would come looking for him until morning. He’d told Remus after a brief hug that he was exhausted before he’d headed to his room. Harry climbed the rickety, spiraling stairs leading to the topmost floor of Grimmauld without so much as a glance behind him. 

Harry knew Sirius was in the house somewhere, and probably awake, but anxiety and anger had tied his stomach in knots. He would go see his godfather after his smoke. After. Everything had to come after he’d had a moment to himself, or he’d blow up and regret everything. 

As he struggled to wrench open the window, he briefly considered smoking inside, smell and lingering smoke bedamned, but as the thought crossed his mind the window gave a little shriek and popped open. Harry crawled out onto the dirty shingles and moved to sit beside the window, looking out onto the backyard of the house. 

He opened his pack, pulled out a joint and popped it in his mouth, lighting up and taking a deep, fortifying breath. Harry’s eyes fell closed as he inhaled deeply, pulling in air after his hit and exhaling, long and measured. As he went to take another hit, he opened the pack of cigarettes one more time to retrieve a menthol and tuck it behind his ear, for later. His hair was such a mess that it covered the white of the paper completely, and kept the fug from prying eyes. It wouldn’t be fun if he was caught and chewed out by Mrs. Weasley for smoking. 

The sky was dark and overcast, sounds of the city muffled by the powerful wards on the house. It was a fairly hot night, temperature perfect for Harry and his penchant for being chilly in all seasons. After three or four hits he could feel the tension bleed from his body, finally making way for bone deep exhaustion.

“ Potter, what on earth-” If Harry hadn’t been halfway through his joint, he would’ve startled at the sound of Snape’s irritated growl coming from the window beside him. But he’d been awake for more than 24 hours, and hadn’t had a decent meal for just as long. The energy to care about being caught smoking on a roof by his professor? He just didn’t have it at the moment. 

“Are you smoking pot?” The utter incredulity in the Potion Master’s voice prompted Harry to actually turn and look at the other man. Snape was leaning out the window, arms braced on the sil with his wand in a relatively loose grip. He was wearing what looked like a long sleeve tee and worn sweatpants- both black of course- but surprisingly muggle. It made the older man look softer, younger; the small part of Harry’s brain that hadn’t checked out the moment he lit up was shocked at how Snape looked, even as he glared at him. 

There were other things Harry noticed about him too; his paler-than-usual pallor, the way his body seemed wound tight like a spring and the heavy-lidded exhaustion in his eyes. Snape wasn’t staring him down, not like usual. No, he seemed like maybe he’d come for a bit of solitude too. In fact, when Harry’s gaze flicked down to the potion master’s hands he saw a wooden pipe, shiny and black just like the rest of him, clutched in his non-wand hand. 

It was 2 am and everyone else in the house was probably in bed. Harry realized he’d been staring, not answering, and Snape was looking tenser and moodier by the second.

“Are you wearing pajamas?” He blurted out, immediately regretting everything. Fuck, he was gonna get so many detentions. But Snape was wearing pajamas, it was beyond strange, and Harry had gone ahead and said the first thing that’d come to his mind like a complete idiot. 

Snape gave him a look of utter loathing, like he was thinking the exact same thing. Harry couldn’t help but notice the dark bags under his eyes, and again did something incredibly stupid. Marijuana in the wizarding world didn’t hold the same weight as it did for muggles, but still. He was sure there was a rule written somewhere that said ‘thou shalt not smoke cannabis with thy potions master.’ or something. 

Harry offered him the joint wordlessly. It was quite a normal gesture, in general terms; Snape stared at the offending apparatus in what seemed like numb shock, his eyes a little wide, his mouth drawn down into a tight line. It hung in the air between them, and just as Harry thought that maybe he really was going to die at the hands of his teacher that hated him, the older wizard reached out and plucked the burning thing from his fingers. 

The moment Snape took it, instead of watching him(his fucking professor!) Harry grabbed the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it up, just to have something to do with his hands. He looked up just in time to see Snape exhale a fat cloud of smoke and look at the joint with a thoughtful expression. After a moment they swapped; Snape had the cigarette and Harry had the joint. 

The younger wizard watched the other inhale and grimace, before his professor quietly muttered. “Of course you would smoke this muggle menthol crap.” 

Harry snorted. “You certainly aren’t the first one to give me shit for it.” 

This was probably the quietest, nicest moment he’d ever had in Snape’s presence. Who knew all it took was a little weed to win over the nasty dungeon bat? Harry had to force a cough, lest he giggle at the thought. 

The deserted city before them had infected both wizards with a sense of calm; no nightmares, or oaths or dark lords could reach them here. When Harry saw the joint going down, he pulled out another and put the other out in seamless rotation. Snape made a soft noise that might’ve been a scoff, but otherwise said nothing and took a long drag of the new joint. 

Neither man knew how they’d stumbled upon this fragile peace, but they weren’t going to go out of their way to break it now. Still, Harry couldn’t resist pushing his luck.

“I keep waiting to wake up from this bizarre dream, but it hasn’t happened yet.” He muttered with humor. 

Snape side-eyed him, blowing a bit of smoke out before fucking smirking “Why does it matter? No one would believe you if you told them about this.”

That had Harry fighting back horrified laughter, coughing a little on the smoke caught in his throat, because this was another level and who knew his evil git of a teacher could be so devious? In a funny way, not his usual ‘Potter, detention for breathing’ way.  Stealing a glance at Snape, he saw that he’d relaxed a lot more. He had an elbow on the sill, his chin propped up in his hand- and a little quirk on his lips that was almost a smile.

This side of Snape was completely new to Harry; but he vowed silently to himself that he’d try to draw it out as often as he could. Clearly the guy was under a lot of pressure, playing for both sides. Maybe he was a completely different person, outside of all the acting and playing the field he had to do. 

“You’re different, like this.” Harry’s brain to mouth filter had said sayonara at this point; the small part of his mind that was rational, and screaming at him to ‘shut up, Potter, you utter wanker’ was drowned out by his high and the strange night. 

“I know we have to keep hating each other- keep up appearances, I mean- um. But I wouldn’t mind doing this again. I just- I’ve been realizing how much you do for the war, for me and I- You’re not a bad guy at all, is what I might be saying. Who knows, I’m stoned. Ignore me.” Please, Harry, shut the fuck up now. 

Snape’s burning gaze bore holes into his forehead as he hurriedly stuck his fug in his mouth to silence himself. The younger wizard didn’t take his eyes off his own hands, cheeks burning, waiting for the end. 

“Why in Merlin’s name would you want to spend any more time with me than you have to? It’s not like I haven’t given you every reason to hate me that I could think of.” The older man replied, and oh god, both of them were way too tired and totally not sober enough to have this kind of conversation. If they were sober they would never have it in the first place. 

Harry didn’t say anything for a while, not sure how to respond. “Well it’s not like I didn’t figure that out eventually- and you’re one of the few people in this entire, fucked up secret society that treats me like a normal person. From everyone else it’s either hero worship, pity, or they hate me for shite I can’t control.” He paused and took another drag of his cigarette. “Or they expect me to be a carbon copy of my dad. I guess you also did that for a while too, but you have to keep up appearances for the all the kids reporting back to their death eater parents.” 

Snape turned his eyes on Harry again, showing a myriad of emotions across his face, all hard to decipher. He seemed almost angry. “Don’t be daft. I publicly humiliate you whenever I have the chance. I’m not a nice man, it wasn’t always an act!” 

“Well you just admitted that it’s an act now! Why are you so afraid to admit you like me, professor?” That shut Snape up pretty effectively, because all he did was relight the joint that had gone out in his hands. 

Harry sighed, pulling his legs to his chest and resting his head on his knees, facing Snape. “You’ve always reminded me of my muggle teachers in elementary, kind of. The ones that knew from speaking to Petunia that I was a delinquent, but were still determined to teach me. It gave me a sense of normalcy amongst all the magic, in a place where suddenly I was popular and sought after for a glorified tragedy I don’t even remember. I dunno.” he laughed bitterly, remembering his first year. The months after his letter came, wondering if he’d go to sleep after classes that night and wake up in the cupboard. 

Snape looked very tired, as if every word Harry spoke took what little energy he had left. “You’re not anything like your father was, as your age. How could you be, you’ve never met the man.” He mumbled the last sentence, but Harry heard it anyway. 

“Exactly! You understand. Fuck.” The teenager took a shaking breath, and then the joint when Snape passed it to him. They fumbled for a second when he nearly dropped it, hands brushing in the dark, but it made its way into Harry’s shaking hands and he hit it once, with feeling. 

After a few minutes of silence in which they finished the second joint, and Snape lit his pipe(which to Harry’s surprise) actually had weed in it. They passed it back and forth for a little while longer. 

“Albus wants me to teach you Legilimency this year. You’ll come to my office once a week after class, and call it remedial potions when anyone asks.” 

“Cool, we’ll be able to hang out more without anyone around to ruin it.” Harry replied absently. When he realized that he’d just indicated, verbally, that he’d enjoy hanging out with Snape(and his mind was really blown at that one) he looked up to see Snape staring at him with his eyebrow raised, a picture of unimpressed. 

“You realize you’re going to actually have to learn to be a Legilimens, right Potter?” 

“Oh yeah. It might just be the weed, but I’m feeling much better about it now than I would’ve if we hadn’t had this conversation.” The teen replied with good humor. It was true; he was feeling much better about Snape in general. Harry remembered how much of a hardass his professor was, and was quick to reassure him. “I’ll do my best to learn all I can from you.”

Snape’s face softened a little. “See that you do, Potter.” He straightened, Placing his pipe in his pocket and pulling himself back into the attic. The older man reached a hand out for Harry to help him inside. “Come now. It’s bedtime for wizarding saviors.” 

Harry smiled, caught the larger, rougher hand in his own and allowed himself to be lightly manhandled back into the attic. He felt beyond tired. When he stumbled on the stairs, Snape dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder and left it there. 

“To the kitchen first, I have a vial of dreamless sleep for you.” Snape said quietly. The younger man grunted a wordless acknowledgement and they made their way together through the house. The potions master beelined to a high cabinet in the corner and pulled out two small bottles, uncorking one and downing it and passing the other to Harry. 

“Thanks, professor. Good night.”

“Goodnight, Potter.” Snape was rewarded with a blinding smile as Harry made his way upstairs. He went to his room, and fell asleep quicker than he’d had in years.

#severitus #ooc characters #crack treated seriously #crack fic

[chaoswillfallrpg]

SUMMER SOLSTICE BALL SUMMARY OF EVENTS: 

‘All great changes are proceeded by chaos’ - unknown

The supposed relaxing summer solstice ball has come to a close and if you were unable to keep up with the chaos, we don’t blame you, then here is a summary of the day for those with questions. 

The first bout of chaos came in the form of LAUREL LINWOOD | @laurel-linwood fainting from a potential bout of sunstroke, it would be later to be determined as poisoning by none other than the host herself WALBURGA BLACK | @mamablack but that piece of information is currently between bosom buddies Walburga and her Dark Lord. 

Being the captain of ‘CONSTANT VIGILANCE’ that he is ALASTOR MOODY | @alastxrmoody quickly realised that the precious prophecy was unguarded and so sent ARTHUR WEASLEY | @arthurweaslcy and ALICE YEN | @alicexyen to protect it. It was a good thing that he did as SEVERUS SNAPE | @half-a-prince, REGULUS BLACK | @regulus7 and ALEXANDRA ROSIER | @alexandra-rosier received word from The Dark Lord to retrieve the prophecy while it was easily taken. A fight ensued and the Death Eaters were Victorious, leaving Arthur and Alice unconscious. 

During this all was well at the ball, people had gotten over the fainting episode and drinks were flowing and merriment was being had. The only thing that may have been slightly out of place was one JAE MULCIBER | @jaemulciber stealing a single hair from the head of an unsuspecting CLAUDETTE DELACOUR | @claudettedelacour and collecting a mysterious vial from EVAN ROSIER | @evan-rapture, but there will be more on this later. 

The party was then rudely interrupted by a floating blue light flying in to the center of the action, the voice of ADAIRIA LINWOOD | @alluring-adairia spoke of a prophecy, spoke of something called ‘The Order’ and how its HQ had been compromised. People looked around at one another, some faces showed confusion, others joy and others looked terrified. Then it was announced that the doors were locked and an imprisonment charm had been placed on the ballroom, they were sitting ducks for whatever awaited them. 

A voice then broke the silence, whispered in to each of the rooms occupants ears, it spoke of equality, how the ministry was corrupt and covering up heinous crimes, it asked you to join him, told you he was going to prove himself to you. It was in the eerie silence of the room that masked figures started to appear, the apparent followers of the unknown voice, fighting for his vision, his future, and then all hell broke lose, spells were thrown everywhere and the night took a dark turn. 

Fights broke out across the room, some were victorious and others were not, people were seen falling to the floor, their bodies un-moving and their attacker moving on to take another victim. People worked tirelessly to protect those that they loved, while others were looking around for their missing friends or loved ones, hoping beyond hope that they were not already hurt. The masked figures worked alone and in teams, and seemingly cared naught for who they came across, the lure of anonymity grasping hold of them tightly. 

The fights then stopped, as everyone caught the flash of green light that no one had yet dared to throw, they watched on as a seemingly un-bothered CLAUDETTE DELACOUR cast the killing blow, everyone stood shocked as the spell hit its target, watching as the body of AMELIA BONES | @ameliabcnes hit the floor with a thud. A fog then dispersed throughout the room, and when it had cleared the masked figures, conscious and unconscious alike had vanished, the only one left to blame was CLAUDETTE who was swiftly arrested by EMMELINE VANCE | @emmelinevancx and taken to St Mungos to undergo tests. 

Questions that need answering for ooc: 

Where is my character? 

All Death Eaters left whilst the fog was in place and apparated away with their wounded kin. They were healed in their own headquaters not to raise suspicion by going to St Mungos. 

All Neutral and Order members who were wounded were taken to St Mungos to have their wounds looked at. Those who were not wounded will either have gone home or went with friends/loved ones to St Mungos, that is up to you. 

Where did the DE masks come from? 

The masks were given out before the event as a precaution by The Dark Lord in case something publicly went down. All those with ‘Death Eater’ in their bio recieved a mask. 

Who placed the Imperious curse on Marlene? 

Marlene was imperioused by none other than Bellatrix Black and was being used as a means to an end. Bellatrix wanted rid of Camille and so used Marlene to try and do so. 

What happened to Chris? 

Chris got hit by a Sectumsempra curse by the hands of Marlene and was bleeding out on the floor. Due to Marlene being under the influence of the Imperious curse Bellatrix could see what she was seeing and saw Chris jump in front to save Camille (which you can see in fight 13). Because of this when the fog came Bellatrix made sure to apparate Chris away and took him straight to Severus who was indeed the creator of the curse and knew the counter curse for it. 

Why Amelia Bones? 

Amelia Bones died because it became apparent to her that Booker Bagnold’s death was no accident. In the heat of a duel (which you can see in fight 1) Rabastan admitted to her that he had killed Booker, and so she knew too much. 

Why did Claudette kill her? 

Poor Claudette was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The hair and bottle Jae Mulciber collected earlier in the evening was indeed for a polyjuice transformation. He turned himself in to Claudette and knocked out the real Claudette (which you can see in fight 9). Jae disguised as Claudette then killed Amelia because she knew too much and also because he was in debt to The Dark Lord. He then disappeared just as the real Claudette was waking up to be arrested. 

If you have any more queries please don’t hesitate to ask a mod privately or put it in the questions channel. We hope you enjoyed the event! 

#cwfevent #event: solstice ball #event #event summary #marauders era rp

[quartusbellum-blog]

ARCHIE for the role of SIRIUS BLACK, using the faceclaim BLAIR REDFORD.

Your application for Sirius is stunning, and incorporates lots of little details which flesh out the character wonderfully. You’ve portrayed the complexity of Sirius’ current situation so well, and there is some truly beautiful writing here. I am very excited to welcome you to Quartus Bellum!

ooc details

Name: Archie

Age: Twenty five

Pronouns: She/her

Activity Level: I’m a current PhD candidate, so my time is pretty strapped. I am also coming out of a writing hiatus, so I’m a little rusty, but this game was so alluring I just thought I’d be an idiot to pass up some world building and exploring. I can probably be online a few times a week, but I can promise lengthy replies in lieu of my absence. I hope that’s okay. I would definitely like to keep the mod team updated on things if I’m away for whatever reason, just so we’re on the same page and everything!

Other: No triggers! But thank you very much for asking. I’m just extremely motivated and intrigued by this plot, so I have to give major kudos to such an arresting idea. Please also note that I am applying from a mockblog I have created for the purpose of this application.

Acknowledgement: I acknowledge that the themes of this game may include triggering elements. I also acknowledge that my character may be harmed, coerced, or even killed (with player’s consent) during paras/events or may cause harm to or kill others during paras/events.

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general ic details

Name: Sirius Orion Black

Age: Twenty one (November 3rd, 1959)

Ships: Chemistry. Full disclosure, the biography given for Sirius gave me a lot of Sirius/James feelings (like, a lot), but I also really ship Sirius/Remus. I write Sirius as gay, but overall I’m pretty relaxed about writing relationships provided they’re realistically depicted and well-paced.

Gender/Pronouns: Genderfluid (he/him or they/them)

Face Claim: Blair Redford (x), Luke Pasqualino, Sean Teale * * I’ve gone back and forth between these three for ages... Ordinarily I write the Black family as POC, so after a Great Struggle™ in which I seriously admired Luke Pasqualino in “Snatch”, I decided to do something different and go with Blair Redford. Now, I do have a possible headcanon around Sirius and Regulus being half-brothers, so that can give the Regulus player some freedom around choosing a faceclaim, as I know matching ethnicities can be tricky (especially as Blair is half unspecified Native American). I will say, however, that I am open to discussing Sirius’ faceclaim, so if you’re unsure I’m happy to talk about it with you.

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biography:

Sirius wasn’t supposed to live past twenty one.

It’s a morbid, private thought, one best left for murmuring into the black velvet of late nights, supine with firewhiskey and muggle cigarettes. See, Sirius never expected to make it to sixteen, but then a certain shaggy-haired idiot named James F. Potter happened, and Sirius’ fears went out the window (literally – have you ever tried to pry open the latch of a very old semi-sentient house that doesn’t want its heir to escape? Harder than it looks). When the war started, Sirius accepted the likelihood of his imminent death with little fanfare. It was easier, anyway, to throw himself into missions and the gutsy bravado that gripped 1979 like a fever. The city was alive: subtropical clubs; the tongues of strangers; heady muggle music; the Order laughing, packed into some tiny apartment, drunk off their tits. And even before that haze dissipated, they all felt immortal. The war was real, of course, but so were they, and Sirius was young, and dumb, and he was one of the best duelers by far, so why shouldn’t he take to the streets, Doc Martens smacking the pavement, dodging after some Death Eater? The Black household was one shrouded in death, what with the dusty portraits of forgotten ancestors, their eyes following you in the gloom, and his own mother’s obsession with mortality, as if the Pox that claimed their father was a mere token of magic’s cruel whim to give and take away. The Marauders filled him with hope; the Order stoked those embers to flames. But there was always something within him, some stoic knowledge, that this was too good too last. He was a Black: his blood ran thick as oil.

If anyone asks (which they don’t, because despite his newfound control, Sirius can still be frightening), losing James was more than a sucker punch to the gut. The Order had lost so many brave witches and wizards at the height of the war, but those terrible deaths were nothing compared to James’ disappearance. No, not disappearance. Kidnapping. Theft. They stole Prongs from Sirius’ useless fingers, swept him away for good, and Sirius was powerless. Maybe that was what hurt most of all: knowing that no matter how deeply he felt for James, how fortifying and achingly tender their friendship was, it just wasn’t enough. Sirius thought he was incapable of love before he met James. But where did that get him? The yawning dark of an empty flat; shaking hands in the cold dawn light; the blood-pound of fear in his jugular, drumming hard enough to make his eyes spot black. Sirius didn’t give himself a chance to mourn, to wonder, to do anything other than drown himself in the rescue effort. The loss of Dumbledore was similarly shattering, but Dumbledore was more figurehead than individual: a manifestation of everything the Order wanted to be. James was real: he was blood and bone. He was laughter and the glossy gold of a snitch, he was private jokes and intense bravery. He was Sirius’ counterbalance. And then he was gone.

Sirius isn’t the same. None of them are. Everything they’d fought for was extinguished in twenty four hours. That might partly explain Sirius’ habitual visits to the muggle world. Disguised as Padfoot is as good as being invisible. He can slip through their ordered, ordinary world, and feel, at least for a few hours, that his pathetic excuse for an existence hasn’t been obliterated close beyond repair. Sirius tells himself they’ll claw it all back. Dumbledore, James, the Ministry. There is a terrible anger within him that is beyond anything he has ever felt. It is cavernous, infinite, far darker and bruised than any reservoir of loathing for his family. It is so intense that he cannot even speak about it. Sirius has always been a little frightened of how deeply he feels, but this redraws those boundaries. That feeling that his life is on a countdown has compounded. Sirius is willing to do anything to take back what is rightfully theirs. He spent his youth at war. It makes sense he’ll die at war too. He’s ready to throw open his arms and embrace the abyss, laughing in delirium, Is that all you’ve got? Well come on then!

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my character is:

HOW IS YOUR CHARACTER LYING TO THEMSELVES (AND HOW IS THIS SHOWN EXTERNALLY)?

Everything is fine. Everything is, of course, not fine, and is in fact irreparably fucked. But the alternative to Sirius’ externally calm demeanour is Sirius totally losing his bottle, and no one can have that, mainly because it would be the least useful thing he could do for the cause. Sirius is used to being someone people admire – there was no shortage of that in school, and even in the early period of the war: someone catching his eye hopefully, waiting for his go ahead; the mere recollection warms him with a rare, near-forgotten sense of purpose – but it’s quite another to have the final say in something. Sirius doubts himself so much. He’s not exactly a rational thinker. His vengeance is cold and cruel, that is certain, but even that type of behaviour is inherently emotional. Sirius revels in disorder: he enjoys feeling unmoored, likes not knowing. He’s not like Moony or Peter, who needed some semblance of routine to feel comfortable. Sirius quite likes feeling out of his depth; discomfort demands action. But he’s not good at communicating that, and he struggles with giving solace to someone who very badly needs to know that things are under control. Sirius hasn’t quite stooped to going, “There, there,” and patting someone awkwardly on the shoulder, but it’s close to it. He’s the first to loudly suggest a drink at some muggle pub after a disastrous mission, and he’s the last to leave, still nursing his beer long after everyone else has straggled home. Sirius isn’t eloquent like James; he isn’t calm like Moony. Hell, he doesn’t even have Wormtail’s pragmatism (before he betrayed them all, the absolute fucking bastard). Sirius is waiting for someone to catch him out. He’s not built to be a leader. The only thing he’s good for is a shag and a fun time. Right? He’s not… he’s not what they think he is. He’s useless. He’s a joke. It’s a joke. But it’s a fine joke. Ergo: everything is fine. It has to be. Otherwise he’ll drag everyone else into the flames with him, and if there’s anything Sirius is truly frightened of, it’s someone else recognizing just how deep the streak of darkness within him runs.

YOUR CHARACTER’S JOB (WHAT DO THEY DO AND HOW DO THEY FEEL ABOUT IT?)

Sirius is dedicated to the Ashen Phoenix. Even when the Order of the Phoenix still existed, when it was little more than a ragged group of idealistic Hogwarts graduates and wayward aurors, when Dumbledore’s vague effluence alternately inspired or infuriated them, back when the war seemed – well, not winnable, but certainly surmountable – even then, Sirius was too much. Too brash, too rough, too much of a muchness that made people like old Mad Eye growl under his breath about upstart sprogs. There was something to be admired in Sirius’ explosive determination, even as his reckless behaviour and breathless duels with Death Eaters was more exasperating than useful. “What?” he’d retort defensively, to a room of tired Order members. “They were asking for it.”

Sirius had always been too much. When everything – when James – when it all went to utter shite, it’s probably no wonder that Sirius lost whatever loose grip on sanity he’d ever had, and tossed it all in to band up with Mary and Lily. Lily, whom he could barely stand on a good day, who suddenly became one of the most important people standing stalwart against the uncertain scaffolding containing his so-called life. Was it really that surprising? Sirius has always privately regarded his grip on reality to be tenuous at best. Combine that with a deep, unwavering streak of hatred for blood purists, and you’ve got a terrible combination. Successful, sure; but dangerous. He can’t afford to be the rambunctious “upstart” that once semi-terrorized the Order of the Phoenix, nor can he sit about on his laurels, skulking in espionage or plotting elaborate shadowy schemes. Sirius’ patience runs thin at the best of times. No, instead he’s squashed himself into a rather uncomfortable box between “probably could be classified as a war crime” and “slightly morally questionable but still alright enough to make Evans begrudgingly admit that was a good idea”. It’s not a comfortable fit, and Sirius still isn’t sure how he ended up growing up so bloody fast, but he’ll do anything to turn back the tide of the darkness that now laps menacingly against their throats.

Aside from that, he spends quite a lot of time inadvertently posing as a muggle homeless person. Or a big shaggy dog. In comparison to being a magical fugitive, it’s almost like going on holiday.

ADDRESS THE DIFFERENCES BETWEEN WHAT YOUR CHARACTER IS CURRENTLY DOING AND WHAT THEY WOULD PREFER TO DO.

Sirius does not like responsibility. It smacks of adulthood, and Sirius never thought he’d live to see that, let alone become a ruddy pillar of virtue. It’s not that he intensely dislikes fussing over details for the Phoenixes, but it does not come naturally to him – he’s no James, put it that way (James, who was forever buzzing around them all in a manner simultaneously carefree and watchful, who’d jokingly suggest you get a jumper otherwise you’d get a cold, you bellend, so just go grab one, oh, and would you get him a chocolate frog on the way, thanks). Sirius actually doesn’t like people looking up to him. What does he know? He’s just some irresponsible dog who’d much, much rather zip away on his motorbike to blast You-Know-Who’s bits off, and sod the consequences. If he didn’t have Mary and Lily keeping him in check, Merlin knew where he’d be. Probably sharing a cell with Dumbledore. Knitting scarves and gossiping. Some lark like that. Instead he’s relegated to asking mundane questions like, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” and, “Wait, try this healing charm.” Sirius listens to his own blather and wants to be sick. He feels the words can no one see I don’t know what I’m doing! burning every inch of him, pounding against the underside of his skin, flaring across his pained expression. “I want James back,” he said (thoughtlessly) to Lily once; and she’d shot him a look and said, “We all do.” You don’t get it, Sirius thought. I want him back because I need him. I can’t do this on my own. I need him.

Sirius does not want to turn back the clock. Despite his irreverent mindset, Sirius isn’t a fantasist. He’s emotionally charged and often irrational, but he doesn’t indulge in make-believe. There is no way things are going back to normal. There’s not even a fragment of what they left behind: those few months after school ended and before the war began, when London was besieged by an oppressive summer humidity, and the Marauders tumbled in and out of parties, drinking and laughing, carefree and stupid; the sanctity of Hogwarts, and how innocent they’d been; even old Regulus, with his pinched, shrewd expression, but the way his eyes would loosen and warm whenever Sirius ruffled his hair and affectionately called him a tosspot. Sirius cherishes these slivers of the past, counting them out like his last coins, weighing their treasure in the palm of his hand. The memories he makes now are bleak. Undernourished effigies of a world devolved. Sirius might feel beset with fear about the future, but he is still… adaptable. He was at sixteen, when he left home on a wing and a prayer, and he is now, at twenty one. No more clever, and a great deal more out of control, but able to adapt, change, mold, mend. Sirius recognizes the strange surrounding landscape and has vowed, if silently, to learn its routes, to memorize its violent topography. Survival. That was what his parents had always taught him, right? That pure blood dominates. The Marauders taught him that too, albeit in compassionate terms of friendship and trust, things Sirius had to re-learn at eleven and still is, in a way. The Order drilled him in guerrilla warfare. Dumbledore’s capture stripped him of complacency. And James… Well, survival demands vigilance. Survival turned him into something else: someone sharper, more serious, blackened around the edges. Sirius doesn’t want to turn back the clock because that would mean leaving this new version of himself behind. And like it or not, this is the only version of Sirius sodding Black that could ever make it out the other end. So, tits up to you, Voldy. This bitch ain’t going nowhere.

OOC QUESTIONS

WRITING SAMPLE:

[ REDACTED ]

EXPLORATION:

A LONG-AWAITED REUNION — One of the major subplots for this group is, of course, the return or recapture of James. From Sirius’ perspective, I think James returning to his life would signal a number of critical things – it might even be a turning point in his characterization. I see Sirius at the moment as barely hanging on. Stress exacerbates his pre-existing feelings of insufficiency and vulnerability, so he is at a stage as a member of Ashen Phoenix where he’s strung out and exhausted, burning the midnight oil, hollow-eyed and discomfortingly stoic. The loss of James was an enormously heavy blow, and that’s no overstatement. If James was somehow returned, I think that would fill Sirius’ sails with the winds of renewal and hope. He and James were a double act; they were shadows of each other. Without him, Sirius feels like a fraud.

PLAYING NICE — Sirius has never been good at pretending. His emotions run close to the surface, flashing in his quicksilver eyes at the slightest provocation. It never used to take much for him to plunge from a euphoric high to a turbulent anger, his moodiness as tempestuous as a tide. But that’s not how you lead people. You can’t expect people to see past your thunderstorm behaviour to the reality of the situation: that Sirius has always felt a split second away from free-fall. Most people aren’t like James, or Moony, or even bloody Wormtail – they can’t see that it’s all an act; that Sirius’ vulnerabilities run swift and deep, and his bravado is just a reliable way to deflect unwanted probing. Since Mouldy Voldy started swinging his shriveled old cock around, Sirius has had an abrupt about-face. It’s never easy, and he often forgets that he’s supposed to be playing nice. In fact, one could make the argument that he hasn’t changed much at all: he’s still a moody bastard. But sometimes he takes a deep breath instead of bursting in rage; sometimes he clenches his fists instead of flying for his wand. I would like to explore Sirius working hard to keep a lid on his temper, particularly given the success of Ashen Phoenix relies, at least in part, on him keeping it together for a little while longer.

THE IMMORTALITY OF REGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK — Reuniting Sirius and Regulus is a massively important subplot for me, and I think it could have powerful consequences in this group. I’m not sure how Sirius will take Regulus’ vampirism – it’ll certainly be interesting to find out. In another context I could see him falling about in horrified laughter, because now Regulus will get to hang around with Walburga forever. But I wonder now if their prolonged absence from each other will stir within Sirius a long-buried sense of responsibility. He’ll probably start worrying about Regulus, terrified that the new Dark Ministry will hunt his brother down and exterminate him. He might even (gasp!) become horribly over-protective, hating himself all the while for needling Regulus about “feeding” and all that dosh (”Shut up!” Sirius snaps as Regulus raises a single eyebrow. “It’s not like there’s a manual about becoming a bleeding vampire, is there?” A pause. “No pun intended.”) No doubt there’s a degree of irony in an ex-Death Eater suddenly becoming the prey of his old buddies, but Sirius isn’t a masochist. As stupid as Regulus has behaved, they’re still brothers. Even before the war turned for the worst, Sirius still missed him. Yearned for him to be back. Regulus was the biggest idiot in Britain, but he was Sirius’ idiot, and if Sirius had heard more than a whisper about his brother he would have probably done something very stupid to rush to his side. Call Sirius a lot of things, but being disloyal could never be one of them.

EXTRAS:

I have created a mockblog for this group, which is the account I am submitting from. You can find it here. I have also written some general headcanons, which you can find below!

Sirius started getting muggle tattoos during the war. The first war, that is, back when they all thought it’d be over by Christmas. He’s got about seventeen, possibly a few more, all in black ink, most of them done in poky muggle tattoo parlours buried in the heart of London, but a couple of them are magical: the dragon across his left shoulder blade, for example, which sneezes fire when you tickle it just right. It’s an eclectic collection that illustrate Sirius’ natural whimsy: a series of ancient runes that Moony told him meant something cool (although Sirius has since suspected Moony was an absolute tosser, and the runes in fact spell “totally gullible gobshite”); an elaborate diagram of the planets in the middle of his back; a broom that zips around his arm (James’ fault, that one); an anatomically dubious pin-up girl (Sirius wanted a guy, but the tattoo artist looked frightening, and Sirius wasn’t in the mood to go toe-to-toe about his sexual preferences); and, for reasons best left alone, ancient constellations scattered most of his chest. There are some other tattoos squashed in here and there – a Gryffindor lion, a protection symbol that Moony literally laughed aloud at when Sirius showed it off – that are mainly impulse decisions. Sirius loves them all. The ink is so black against his brown skin, the magical designs flickering in the corner of his eye, and it all gives the illusion of him appearing alive, ever in motion, an intricate living illustration.

Sirius still owns his motorbike, although it’s too dangerous to ride it. Some arsehole (Bellatrix, probably) ratted him out, and now everyone and their mother is on the hunt for a sleek black motorbike. He isn’t stupid enough to ride it, no matter how burning the urge, although sometimes he does go out to Clapham, where he’d parked it in a muggle garage, just to linger over it for a few stolen moments. One day he’ll blaze it right over London, preferably in celebration of Balding Voldy’s bloody demise. One day. He will.

Sirius is gay. The revelation came unobtrusively. He’d always known there was… something awry. You’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to be surrounded by all of those posh pureblood birds growing up and feel nothing more than resignation at their proximity (their brothers were far more intriguing). Sirius played along for a bit at school, going out with a few girls, making out with McKinnon at more than a few parties. It was all serviceable, except for the fact it was tremendously boring, and if there was anything Sirius resented, it was feeling confined. He came out (very loudly) in his sixth year (in the middle of the Great Hall; it was quite the gossip for a week or so), and has since been perfectly content with advertising his sexuality at the nearest opportunity. He’s no blushing violet, put it that way. While Wizarding society is more or less accepting of sexuality (his parents notwithstanding: Sirius was still expected to marry and produce an heir; and that thought, of dragging some brat into the world through duty alone, turned his stomach), the fragmentation in muggle society is something else. Sirius is still too enthusiastic about muggle life to ever really fit in – he’s been asked innumerable times if he’s a tourist, which absolutely delights him – but the gay and lesbian rights movements in recent years has captured his attention. He’s kept up with the news about protests, and once apparated into an alley adjacent to a march for queer liberation. We’re here, the muggles chanted, we’re queer! We won’t disappear! The feeling was incredible. Wixen didn’t have anything like this – it was all just taken for granted. But the fight of the muggles. Their determination; their spirit. Their strength in demanding what was theirs. It left him breathless, and for the first time in his life, proud.

Sirius spends a lot of time as Padfoot these days. It’s just easier. He’s a dab hand at disguise charms – had to be, when the war started to turn truly dark and a Black blood traitor head on a spit was a coveted prize – but outside of a handful of people, Sirius’ animagus form is a secret. Lily knows, of course, as does Macdonald, but they have to. Slinking around London as a dog makes for surreptitious travel, even if he’s taken on some bad habits as a human. Fleas genuinely are the worst, alright? He can’t help scratching himself fiercely at the slightest itch.

The way Sirius dresses now is a diluted version of the summer of 1979. Back then, London was a heaving cesspool of cramped, humid clubs, gigs outfitted in leather and gelled spikes, tight chokers, and a casual, careless androgyny that made Sirius’ heart beat fast. Back then he didn’t give a toss. Now, of course, he’s no longer a naive graduate, and the world has grown dim. He usually wears a leather jacket over some band t-shirt, a pair of black ripped jeans, Doc Martens. That’s toned down, for him. While a lot of the jewellery has gone, Sirius’ fingers are still bejewelled with rows of heavy silver rings, and a dragon tooth earring swings from his left ear. His eyes, once glittering with flirtatious humour, are ringed dark with wariness; and his cutting bone structure has sharpened with one too many missed meals. Sirius is probably physically bulkier than he was at school, simply because sleeping rough and hauling arse after a dozen Death Eaters tends to fill you out, but his body is still lean, with an echo of that languid grace that whispered of pureblood ballrooms and charity galas. Sirius’ hair has grown long, and he usually ties it sloppily away from his face, but he stays clean shaven… most of the time. Lily once said he looked like a Lennon on a bad trip after Sirius reappeared after a rendezvous in Dublin for four weeks. He’s still trying to figure out if that was an insult.

#marauders rp #skeleton rp #lsrpg #marauders era rp #sirius black #quartusbellumaccept

[merrylittlehogwartsrp]

Happy Holidays, Elva! We are thrilled to “invite” Neville Longbottom (fc Justice Smith) back to Hogsmeade for a little forced Winter Cheer. We loved the short evocative notes in your app that clearly put to mind 7th year as well as where Neville is today.

Please pack your bags and send in your tumblr. Additional information can be found here!

OOC DETAILS:

NICKNAME: Elva

AGE (must be 18+): twenties

PRONOUNS: she/her, they/them

ACTIVITY ESTIMATE: I check the dash daily, and try to post at least once daily, though sometimes replies take me a little longer to write. 

CHARACTER DETAILS:

FULL NAME & NICKNAMES: Neville Longbottom

BIRTHDATE: July 30th, 1980

BLOOD-STATUS: Pureblood

* GENDER IDENTITY: Cisgender male

* GENDER PRESENTATION/PRONOUNS: Male, he/him

* SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Pan-Demi Sexual

CHARACTER SITUATION:

OCCUPATION: 

Auror. After the battle of Hogwarts, there was little life could throw at Neville that he wasn’t ready for. After early graduation from Hogwarts, Neville went straight into work as an Auror. He’d already fought the battle that ended the war; he passed his training with flying colours, better than any exam he sat at Hogwarts. Neville is proud to have brought many a Death Eater to justice, but the job is wearing on him. If he’s honest, it was wearing from the start, only he was more used to it then. It was war and so what if he was tired if he was still alive and kicking? But the war ended three years ago. Why is it they’re still fighting? Neville needs a change of pace. He needs what his parents never got the chance to have, a life beyond being an Auror. He needs quiet, time to be in his garden, and he doubts the Department of Mysteries can offer that, but even if there’s just a small chance it’s better he has to try, right?

HOUSING: 

Neville rents a small two-bedroom cottage in the middle of nowhere, outside Norwich. It’s easy enough to get to if you possess magic, meaning despite having no neighbours it’s not remote by a long shot, but the space is a necessity for Neville, who dreams of having a large garden. The garden is there, but Neville wouldn’t deign to call it one yet on account of the weeds that have wreaked havoc on it. He simply hasn’t had enough time to work on it, between his job and catching up with the DA. Each time Neville steps outside his door he’s confronted with his shame; for neglecting his plants, for taking so long to figure out this life he’s built isn’t for him anymore, shame for avoiding his own unhappiness, all so he doesn’t have to admit to Gran and the rest of the world that he can’t go on being the grandson or the wizard they all want him to be. 

SOCIAL STANDING: 

Being a pureblood on the right side of the war, not to mention a celebrity, Neville’s social standing is pretty good. Of course, Neville is oblivious. He doesn’t put much store in such matters. It’s all nonsense; doesn’t actually say the first thing about you. But if he looked at the facts, son of an Auror who became an Auror himself, he would guess he was relatively successful, and he knows people treat him differently now (Gran does, that’s for sure). But enough of the boy who was “practically a squib” remains that he doesn’t recognise his worth in the eyes of others. And he doesn’t let himself think about it either, lest he slip back into old habits. He values himself, finally, and for the most part that’s enough. 

CHARACTER CONFIGURATION:

TALENTS/WEAKNESSES 

+ Herbology, Duelling, Negotiation and Leadership. 

- Potions, Flying, Lying

STRENGTHS/FLAWS 

+ Courageous, Resolute, Kind

- Still clumsy (yes, he did just spill this tray of four mugs of tea over the entire sofa), Insecure (Neville isn’t only trying to live up to his parents’ accomplishments, but who he has been these past four years. All his old insecurities are still there, he’s just stopped listening to them so much.) 

CHARACTER HISTORY: 

FAMILY BACKGROUND: 

Neville’s magic made itself known only when Neville was tumbling out of a window, dropped by his great uncle Algie who forgot about him at the mere sight of a meringue. It’s a defining moment for Neville. Not only does it say alot about his magic and how it works (stubbornly–his magic voiced the defiance that Neville was too shy, too insecure to put into words), but it also says a lot about his family. They didn’t hang about waiting for his magic to show. They forced it and him. Neville wonders if it’s always been this way–if this is the method that worked on his dad–or if it’s because his dad is no longer around for a casual chat that his family treats Neville this way, if grief has settled into their bones, reshaping their personalities into something slightly more gruff and heavy-handed. All Neville’s life his parents have lived in St Mungo’s, but he feels their absence keenly every time he’s around Gran or his great aunt and uncle. Even more so now that he’s an Auror. It’s like they’re all trying to pick up where his dad left off. But how long can you be an Auror before you start to lose pieces of yourself? And how many pieces can you lose before you’re not yourself anymore?

LIFE DURING THE WAR:

If you need someone who isn’t there, sometimes you have to step up and fill that role yourself. This is how Neville came to be one of the leading figures of the DA in Harry’s absence, along with Luna and Ginny. They all needed someone to follow, someone to tell them this fight needed to happen; that even in defeat, they could still make an impact and keep the fight alive. Neville will tell you that if it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else. And he’s not wrong. But he’s glad for all the hits he took on behalf of others, especially the younger students; that he became the human punching bag for the Carrows, absorbing whatever blow and hex they threw at him. It hurt, alot, but there was a silver lining to that cloud–the DA finally got to practise their healing spells.

Neville has never been one to stay on the ground when he’s down, though it used to take him longer to find his feet. During the war, Neville bounced right back up. He survived, despite mouthing off Carrow and Voldemort at every turn, speaking up when they spouted their bigotry, and defending other students against their cruelty. And he has a whole host of scars to show for it. Some wounds healed magically, and some took time, either because the spells were too difficult for the DA, the cut too deep, or Neville refused the help because there was another student in greater need. (There was always another student in greater need.) They’re on his face and torso mostly, dozens of little nicks on his skin and a few thicker scars from deep gashes, including one on his right cheek, one of the final cuts he received. Some days he wears them with pride. Others, he hates them, seeing nothing but the marks the Carrows left on him, on his skin and his mind. Neville response to pain is undeniably shaped by his experience during his seventh year. It makes him feverish, almost excitable. Neville has found what he’s good at. He doesn’t fear getting knocked down anymore, but maybe he should.

LAST THREE YEARS:

Neville threw himself into his work, and when he wasn’t on the clock, he was as good as working, checking in with his friends, scraping together the remnants of the DA and shaping them into something resembling people. Sometimes this meant having a drink down the Leaky Cauldron, and others it meant making sure they had food in the fridge or that their laundry hadn’t piled up. Either way, Neville kept on filling the role of DA leader that he’d gotten so comfortable in during his seventh year. That way he didn’t have to inspect his own damage. But if anyone wants a glimpse into Neville’s state of mind, all they have to do is look at his garden. The wildflowers hide it well, but anyone with a passing knowledge of plants would know instantly that Neville is not okay.

HOLIDAY DETAILS:

Neville’s one family tradition which he absolutely upholds is visiting his mum and dad at the hospital every day of the week before Christmas. He decorates their hospital room with paper chains and tinsel, and brings Christmas cookies and sweets. On the bad days, he only stays for a quick hello and goodbye, but on the good days, he spends hours with them, telling them about the good things, like the plants he’s planning on putting in the garden, or various anecdotes about Seamus or the lovely thing Luna said during their last meet-up. Neville doesn’t ascribe to any religious beliefs. He observes Christmas because it’s time he spends with his family. It gives him a reason to be at the hospital more often, doing something for his mum and dad. Neville loathes that he’s involved in the celebration. He would have nothing to do with it if it wasn’t compulsory (a fact which is setting off alarm bells in Neville’s head), except Gran is ecstatic. She wants to parade her grandson in front of everyone, talk about what a hero he is. Neville can’t wait…

OOC SUPPLEMENT:

SHIPS: Neville/Chemistry. 

CHANGES: Nope! All the bios are wonderful. I love them. 

FACECLAIM: Justice Smith, Henrik Holm.

#merrylittleapp #neville longbottom