the devil

Evan never paced; it was an action that blatantly expressed anxiety or agitation and when it came to such vulnerable emotions, he never allowed himself to express them so explicitly. That didn’t change the fact that he was pacing at the moment despite being aware that it was pathetic and completely counter-productive. He didn’t know how else to deal with the nervous energy currently bouncing beneath his skin, though. It felt as if he was hyped up on the opiates some of his fellow Death Eaters elected to use; his body was moving too fast for his brain, his thoughts—justifications, memories of the failed mission, and possible consequences he had yet to face—flitted across the landscape of his mind so quickly, his vision was starting to blur. Or maybe that was because he had subconsciously started to pace even faster. He stopped. Standing in the middle of his bedroom, he glanced at his bed; maybe he ought to lie down, close his eyes and pretend that the situation wasn’t as detrimental as it actually was. He quickly shook off the thought; that was how weaklings would think and Evan was not weak.

He was not weak but he had never been in such a weak position before; this was the exact predicament he had hoped to avoid when he had offered to act as a spy in his department. He had believed such dedication—as soon as he was recruited, no less—would secure him against any positions of doubt in the future. So much for what he had believed to be a fool-proof plan. His shoulders abruptly sagged, yet another explicit physical display of emotion he normally wouldn’t allow himself to portray, and he walked towards his bed. He sat down, his hands lying useless on his thighs as he waited. Waited for his Dark Mark to sting with the familiar ache of summons from their Lord or perhaps he was waiting for the tactical intelligence he so prided himself on to start functioning again. He, quite frankly, did not know what he was waiting for.

The door to his room suddenly opened and Evan’s back automatically straightened; his eyes hardened to conceal his fear but it only lasted for a moment when he saw Cassius in the doorway. He looked away, sighed then stood up. He had no idea how his best friend would respond to what had happened; if that was even why Cassius was here in the first place but given the hard look on his best friend’s face, Evan was certain that he came to talk about the mission. Evan crossed his arms against his chest, leaning against the wall by his bed as he avoided his friend’s eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at the Lestrange manor like everyone else?”

The small teashop was oddly vacant. Normally Madam Puddifoot’s shop was full of witches and wizards trying to enjoy their date nights by sharing a dull conversation over drinks. Remus had never really enjoyed even being near this place for many reasons. One of the main reasons was the amount of people that always seemed to crowd inside the shop and second was the all the couples in love. The mere thought made Remus roll his eyes. He couldn’t imagine why on earth any couple would willing to shove themselves inside this tiny building covered in terribly tacky decorations in attempt to get to enjoy each other’s company. 

The only reason why Remus was in today was because of how empty it was. Being that it was Christmas it seemed that people were still enjoying the holiday with their family unlike Remus. While he would go and see his dear friends later, right now he was alone. Remus woke alone and went to bed alone, it was a pretty intense change for the young werewolf. He had gone from waking every morning with three loud boys telling him to get the hell up to afternoons where he had just woken up blearily wondering why no one was waking him up like they used to. As if his body had been running on memories, this morning he woke early his body excited like a child for Christmas. He expected to see James running and jumping into his bed telling him it was time to open presents or watching as Sirius tossed him his present a grin on his face telling Remus that he had gotten him the best gift ever, Sirius’s words. But like every other morning the man woke to a quiet home, a home that didn’t even really feel like his home. He supposed that no matter how much he tried to withdraw from the world that his home would always be with the Marauders. 

A soft sigh escaped his lips as he glanced up from his cooling tea. His eyes adjusted to the light outside, watching through fogged windows as other lonely wizards slowly made their way through the empty village. He wondered what their stories were, if they too thought that their home didn’t quite feel like home on a day like this. Remus wasn’t exactly sure how long he was staring outside making up stories about each person that walked by until there was a brush against his shoulder like someone was moving by. “Sorry,” he mumbled quietly, his fingers wrapping around the edge of his chair as he moved closer to the window, “I was sittin’ right in your way.”  In his own defense though, he didn’t expect anyone to need past him seeing how empty it was. 

Cassius walks in with very little patience and within 10 minutes he’s just about isolated the sound to a particular patch of ceiling. The aforementioned patch of ceiling sound oh-so-conveniently happens to be coming from the bit another patron (the only other patron in the store ) is sitting under.

"Yes, you most definitely are." Cassius pokes the man and answers. He's already hit his quota for doing the nice thing today (not that he even has a quota, but see: taking a job on Christmas), so his voice slips from what little politeness it has to quite simply say: "Move, move." Cassius gives just about zero fucks when it came to being concerned whether or not he is bothering the patrons of Madam Pudifoots. He just wants to get his job done and then possibly drag Evan and Amycus off so that the three of them could drown their sins in alcohol. If not that, at the very least he could spend the day inventing another spell or two. 

Cassius all but pushes the man from the seat he’s sitting on and then, using the chair as a stool, stands on his tip toes to poke the ceiling tile with his wand. As soon as he does, the sound, a low stuttering hum, stops. Cassius gives a small roll of his eyes before uttering a silent curse. There’s a soft thud and a fluffy orb falls through the ceiling. It lands in a heap, right at the absent-minded stranger's feet. Dead. Cassius gives an exasperated sigh. This didn’t even fall under his jurisdiction. Short staff on Christmas has got him doing things the Beast Division should be handling. It’s not even something of fucking interest. "You'll be happy to know your shoppe it not cursed.” Cassius says loudly to the shoppe manager that is watching him from behind the counter. “You've just got a puffskein on the loose." Cassius nudges the creature with his toe. Really, really dead. He looks up at the stranger in front of him.  "Do you want it? It's basically useless to me now." Cassius says casually. It’s the first time he’s getting a look at the other and he knits his brow. The man in question looks familiar, but he can’t for the life of him figure out from where. Most would leave it at that - say a simple ‘Hello, sorry about that’ and ‘Happy Christmas,’ but, again, Cassius is the kind of man who is still waiting for his fucks to return from war. 

"Have we met?"

He leaned over the table, mahogany top spread with maps, ledgers, and neatly scrawled notes, with knuckles white and jaw clenched. Shoulders rolled forth, he was a wound coil, the very image of a lit fuse ready at any moment to set the meticulous plans before him alight. It was his duty to remain wound tight, sitting there at the head of the table, to keep his palms flat upon the table rather than clenched into fists with trimmed nails digging into his palms. It was his responsibility, his duty, to remain calm, to maintain the stance of the figurehead, of the stoic leader who could not be shaken for anything. He’d found himself, however, unable to tear his gaze from those who’d failed him - though he found it quite easy to never show his anger before the mass of his followers, he’d wanted nothing more than to stalk along the length of the table and wrap his slender fingers about their throats, squeezing until they were forced to beg for his forgiveness. 

Whether he choked it from them or not, he wished they would beg. Perhaps they would. Or perhaps he’d find cause to bruise their lily-white throats anyhow. 

But it would do nothing to change the outcome of their mission, nor the livelihood of their quarry. It would not thin the cloud of irreparable disappointment that hung over his hunched shoulders, nor the ominous imminence of certain punishment; he was not a merciful master, nor was he an optimistic one. Perhaps he’d make an example of them. Perhaps he’d correct their mistakes himself. Over the failed plans he hunched, the meticulous nature of the detailed movements before him a mockery; the rustling of paper beneath his fingers was akin to laughter, the voices outside the study door a rumbling of imminent thunder come to strike them all down before he had the chance to. 

The door at his back opened, creaking long and discordant, breaking the angry silence which gripped him. “I suppose,” he snapped, voice a hiss from behind clenched teeth, “you’ve had a momentary lapse in judgement. A closed door means, in most societies, that whosoever resides within wishes not to be disturbed.” And he didn’t - recovery was necessary. To account for failure, he would need time. But his temper was a much stronger need. 

“But since you are so conveniently here,” he straightened, affording himself a languid moment to roll his shoulders, to crack at the tension in his neck, “Shall we review the night? Perhaps you should begin. Refresh my memory, if you will.” Here, he looks for supplication. Honesty. Begging had never been a flattering color on the lot of them, but perhaps tonight was the night to change his personal taste.

His Lord’s displeasure is palpable from the second he enters the room. The events and the consequences of the ministry are still fresh in Cassius’ mind. As a ministry employee, he was in attendance, but had stayed unmasked throughout the attack to avoid suspicion. Wandless magic had always been is forte, so the hexes that had left his lips had happened without the flick of wand. It wasn’t enough to shift the tide in the outcome of the night. They’d failed. That’s all that mattered and he’s certain that’s all his Lord will see. Cassius can’t help but agree. They might have not lost the war, but wars were only won through equally won battles.

In 10th century France, the doors of criminals and traitors were painted yellow and this is the color Cassius feels when he thinks of Belvina and Amycus and… Evan.

“Most societies,” Cassius quips quietly, and it comes off as an aside more than anything else, “have also invented locking mechanisms for those aforementioned doors if you truly did not wish to be disturbed.”

In front of him his Lord is hunched over the table and the tension is so thick in the room he can taste it heavy on his tongue, like cooper, like blood. The taste of blood has never been something that’s deterred him, but it does give Cassius pause. The thing about being bound to another’s will by dark magic is that there is little doubt where Cassius’ loyalties lie. Were he even to attempt to stray, the bony grasp of the reaper would wrap around his heart and he’d find himself little more than a cold corpse. As a testament to this, when His Lord asks him to ‘refresh his memory’ even the slight pause Cassius gives is enough to set up a drumming sound in his blood. Something hooks itself onto the words sitting in his chest and reels them up out of his of his throat. He is required to respond.  When His Lord says “Jump,” he must reply with “How high?”

“Despite the fact that Carrow, Burke, and Rosier were well within their means to complete the task given to them, they were unable too.”

Who amongst them didn’t know the killing curse in their sleep? That said - Silas Bilshwick was present at the event, he went into a goddamn separate department with the Minister... and Minchum is still alive? Were Carrow, Burke, and Rosier really the fuck ups here?

But there’s no way Cassius is saying that. Courage for quips or not. Besides, he didn’t walk in here just to see how far he can get before his head is completely separated from his body. (though Cassius is the kind to absolutely do that.)

“The Minister has safely reached St. Mungos, but the nurses are uncertain of the counter-curse for the one that Amycus hexed him with.”

Of course they won’t. Or if they did, Cassius was praying to gods he didn’t believe in that they wouldn’t until it was too late. He was the one to invent the spell Amycus had cast after all, and the hex of ‘sanguis ignis’ would slowly kill the Minister from the inside out.

“So at the very least we have some time.”

He said with the kind of confidence born of someone with nothing to lose. All that he was and would ever be was right here in this room and so Cassius doesn’t see the point of dwelling on the past, when they should be planning for the future.

Snake eyed With a sly smile He can hold you And shake you child

glass animals // black mambo

the card;

“the card of the devil portrays a satyr, a creature that is half man and half goat.iIn many myths, the goat was considered an unclean and lustful animal. however, the goat also symbolizes the scapegoat, the person or thing upon which people project the inferior side of themselves in order to feel better about themselves. thus the Devil is the scapegoat we blame for our troubles in life.”

upright: addiction, materialism, playfulness, obsession reversed: freedom, release, restoring control, detachment

the holder;

name: cassius mulciber gender & pronouns: cismale, he/him occupation: ministry affiliated; unspeakable birthday: 30 october 1951 blood status: halfblood pureblood affiliation: death eaters; Death Eaters. Cassius literally owes his life to Voldemort and so his loyalty to the Death Eater is indisputable. Though he has never been given much of a choice, at this point in his life he sees himself as little more than a soldier for the cause.  secret: his mother was muggle that died to create the horcrux out of Slytherin’s locket

the deck;

evan rosier: best friend, ex-lover mary macdonald: torments, obsessed with  regulus black: protege tom riddle: reluctant but loyal follower

the tale;

biography: 

It is known that somewhere between 1946 and 1979 the murder of a muggle tramp is what allowed the locket of Salazar Slytherin to become a horcrux. More specifically, the year was 1951 and the woman’s name was Alena Novak. Alena was a kind woman, if not a little out of step with her time. She was independent, outspoken, and a completely unmarried by the time she was in her late 20s. The totalitarian rule of 1950s Czechoslovakia proved to be a dark time and Alena saw the full effect of it. She was a university professor who found the communist ideology that permeated the politically based education system to be stifling. As an attempt to fight back, Alena made efforts to instill a sense of autonomy in everyone she taught. Alena was a muggle and had absolutely no knowledge of the wizarding world, magic, wands or witches. If you asked her, there was enough going on in the “real” world for her to wish for anything else.

About 1,000 kilometers away, Caius Mulciber, at the age of 30, found himself promoted to International Director of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Quidditch Committee. He’d taken the position from his father before him and so the transition was not the least bit unexpected. The Mulciber’s were an old pureblooded family, steeped in tradition and even further steeped in dark secrets. Caius found himself continuously at Tom Riddle’s side. He was a Slytherin of course and one of the original Knights of Walpurgis. Caius stepped into the role of Death Eater easily. Soon after graduation, the heir to the Mulciber legacy married an Avery and the two had two lovely pureblooded children they could not be more proud of.

Caius was brought to Czechoslovakia in 1948 for the Quidditch World Cup. It seems fate was determined to make his path cross with Alena’s during his stay in Prague. The two continued to meet in Prague soon after the initial introduction, and one dark night in 1951 Caius made a mistake. That mistake was immortalized nine months later in the form of Cassius Mulciber. Caius was quick enough to cover up his mistake and flee back to England. Cassius grew up in a country knee deep in communism with only his mother to keep conformity at bay. Despite the disparity around him, Cassius had a happy enough childhood. When his magical abilities showed themselves at an early age, Alena and her practical self always managed to write it off as some freak accident.

The thing about mistakes though is that they have a tendency to rise to the surface before long. Whether it was love or guilt that kept Caius sparsely in touch with Alena the world will never know. It was this decision on his part that cost her her life. Seven was not a lucky number for Cassius, because when he was seven years old, Voldemort learned about his existence in all its halfblood glory. Out of “respect” for an old friend, Voldemort agreed to spare Cassius’ life if Alena’s could be used to create a horcrux. A deal was sealed and a debt was formed. 

Caius never let Cassius forget this debt. The boy was taken back to England where he was suddenly part of a family that really wanted nothing to do with him. When he was old enough, an Unbreakable Vow was made between Caius and Cassius. Cassius was to dedicate his life to the Dark Lord and that was the end of that.Despite the debt created, Caius never really did live down the shame of Cassius. In an attempt to hide his son away from the world, Cassius was sent to Durmstrang. Cassius had spent the majority of his life in the shadows, but at Durmstrang Cassius found an opportunity to shine. He was wild, he was reckless, and though well liked, he picked enough fights to get on the bad side of some people. Turns out, one of those people was the son of the headmaster. After one particularly nasty fall out, Cassius found himself on the verge of expulsion. Caius was furious but stepped in on behalf of his son nonetheless. A deal was struck (oh how the wheel turns) and Cassius was sent to Hogwarts instead.

With Hogwarts came the following things: Slytherins and the Death Eaters. Of course Cassius was sorted out into the house of the snake, and his eternal debt meant there was a space cut out just for him amongst the Dark Lord’s followers. He found himself drawn to the erratic nature of Fenrir Greyback. He empathized with Severus Snape. He hated Quidditch because of his father, but played it for the adrenaline rush. Hogwarts was a sanctuary for Cassius. Leaving it reminded him he had burdens to carry. After graduation, Cassius spent the majority of time carrying out missions in far off places for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Afterall, when Voldemort said “jump” an Unbreakable Vow made Cassius say “how high.”

Most recently, Cassius returned from a trip where he was off negotiating with vampires. When he’s not off on a Death Eater mission, he is over at the ministry working as an Unspeakable. In his free time he invents spells.

the play;

patronus: direwolf character tropes: the hound of hell, the hedonist, the pyromaniac, the insurgent

headcanons:

1. As a former student of Durmstrang, Cassius’ strengths can be found in his talent for the Dark Arts and his skill at nonverbal magic. His time with the Death Eaters post Hogwarts has given him a specific set of skills as well. 2. Cassius is a registered animagus and can turn into a direwolf at will. 3. Outside his immediate family, no one knows that Cassius is a halfblood. His illegitimate parentage is also under wraps.