Careful Fear and Dead Devotion

@gingerbaines

It had become a bit of a habit as of late; so much so that the days would blend together into a haze.

The routine was well-worn. First, spend countless bleary hours manning the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s, attempting to reverse the often horrific effects of a misplaced spell. Then, stumble one’s way into the nearest pub, often crowded with raucous crowds of muggles kitted-out in their team’s finest, shouting obscenities at the telly. Fight for a snug with a decent view of the match before tucking in to some hearty fare. Drink the night away quietly, paying homage to his Irish lineage with pint after pint of stout. Duck out the back entrance. Apparate home and fall drowsily into an unkempt bed only to rise the next morning with a pounding headache. Wash, rinse, repeat.

He’d been keeping up this pace for --what? Weeks? Months? It seemed impossible to unravel where this branch on the timeline began to diverge from that of the normally studious, hard-working lad who’d made a custom of top marks. Sure, the attacks hadn’t helped - the constant drain on the hospital’s time and resources, the utterly unpredictable identity of the victims, the horrors of the effects. Wherever it had actually begun, it was clear that the stress of the final year of his training program was continually wearing away at the young man, like the crashing waves ground steadily into the stony shoreline; try as it might, not even the immovable rocks could bear the relentless pressure of the water. For Michael, he was truly between a rock and a hard place - caught between the demands of the Head Healer with case after case of people in need and the constant desire to hide away from the world for a month, even if only to catch up on sleep.

This particular night had been no different - the football match had long since finished, the patrons shuffling out the door with the ecstasy of a late winner still on their lips. Left behind with the smell of stale beer sent enthusiastically into the air was the dark-haired man tucked into a corner booth, four empty glasses pushed to one side with a dog-eared medical tome splayed across the table. Michael’s dark rimmed eyes scanned the page, searching for the information relevant to his latest case, while his hand grasped clumsily for the glass that still contained some of the black liquid. He lifted the beer wordlessly to his mouth, never breaking his gaze with the his page, as he gulped greedily at the ale. He poured over the details - poisoning this time, the fourth this month. Different toxins, similar results. It was maddening, being pulled off of his unit to focus on cases that were only tangentially related to spell damage, but every able mind and pair of hands seemed to be needed. Michael took another quick sip of his beer as he puzzled, lowering the quickly emptying glass. It was only as the base of the vessel scraped against the worn table that the young man noticed the shadow being cast across the table, blocking what little light reached his quiet corner of the pub.

“The light’s bad enough in here as it is,” he ventured gently, brows furrowed as he attempted to decipher the tiny print in the failing light. Without looking up at the source of the intrusion, he implored politely in the direction of the shadow. “D’you mind stepping to the side? Unless you’ve got another pint with you, then you can stay as long as you like.”

SHE LISTENED WHILE DISCRIMINATELY SURVEYING  their surroundings, but tilted her head sharply at him with his sassy comment – his jab at her participation in the Inquisitorial Squad was something she couldn’t defend. Well, not without getting into an explanation that, frankly, was none of his business and could also open the floor for more risk.

 — Yeah, that wasn’t happening. 

Viridian eyes narrowed on him in mild annoyance, twitching as she processed his words. Firstly that the rest of Harry’s club should already be safely back in their dormitories and secondly the implication that he would be punished alone – please, he could suggest ALL DAY LONG that he would endure torture before he gave the rest of them up, but no one was that good. Even if someone believed themselves so noble, they weren’t that strong. 

The gentler tones in his voice surprised her somewhat. Her gaze dropped when he began expressing gratitude. That sort of thing always made her twitchy, gratitude – and yet, didn’t she always acutely notice its ABSENCE when it seemed warranted? She breathed in and out, and focused again on his rationalizations.  “ You know my brother well, don’t you, ”  she replied dryly, though whatever prior venom had vacated her voice. Now she just sounded tired. Or bored. No, not bored… There was still an edge in her posture, like that of someone who had forgotten how to relax.  “ If you mean to keep up with…whatever it is you’re all doing, you’re going to have to be sharper about covering up your tracks. ”  Her words grew softer as she spoke.  “ If my brother was alone in this, he would be caught sooner rather than later – but he has people like Granger on his side who think before moving. Thank Godric not everyone flies by the seat of their pants. ” 

As much as the bushy-haired witch vexed her at times, Anthea knew she owed much to her for backing her brother up at every turn. Thea tried to be there for her twin despite the way they CLASHED, but it was more often Hermione who saved his hide. 

“ We don’t have to move quickly, ”  she offered with a shrug, meeting the Ravenclaw’s eyes with more laissez-faire than her rigid frame displayed. “ You’re protected while you’re with me, as long as it looks like I’m seeing you back to your common room. It’s a shame the kitchens are such a long jog. A butterbeer is always good for the nerves, eh? ”  A small spark of mischief flashed in her eyes.  “ The, erm…house-elves keep a stash of it and so claim that they keep it for the staff, but I’m not buying that any more than I am the supposition that Trelawney knows what she’s bloody doing. ”  

It had already been an exceedingly stressful night and though Michael’s heart rate had begun to recede back into it’s normal realm, the girl’s keen emerald eyes boring into him were enough to keep him on edge. He knew that his sharp tone was uncalled for. After all, Potter was the chief reason that he was upright and intact in the school’s hall instead of hanging upside down by his toenails, or some other equally unpleasant scenario. Still, there was something about her that screamed ‘unpredictable’, a trait that gave Michael fits. She was Harry Potter’s twin sister for Godric’s sake, but here she was eyeing him up like a dodgy clam in a pot of chowder, wearing that bloody badge on her lapel. Though he’d made it his goal in his years at Hogwarts to not judge books by their covers or students by their houses, running with the likes of Goyle and Zabini did nothing to instill a sense of confidence in her ability to be a reasonable person. The obvious counterpoint to his uncertainty, her assistance this evening, was all that kept him from politely excusing himself and hightailing it back towards the safety of Ravenclaw tower.

When she spoke once more, the entire conversation seemed to have changed, a seismic shift in tone that caught Michael unaware. She was giving advice now, on how to better outfit her fellow Inquisitors? Certainly, the young man had never known Anthea to wish her brother harm exactly, but her level of candour was beyond what he’d expected. Surely he was misunderstanding - she would be berating him further later? The other shoe would be dropping at some point. Still, who was he to complain for the friendlier reception? If she was feeling cheerful, he wouldn’t dare risk her good graces.

“S’pose I know him well enough,” Michael replied with a shrug, his own posture beginning to relax with each passing moment. In truth, he couldn’t claim to be particularly close with any of Potter’s inner circle, despite his involvement in Dumbledore’s Army. He’d spent time studying with Hermione -- but really, who in their class who’d ever frequented the library hadn’t? Weasley was a nice enough bloke, but one who tended not to stray too far outside of those wearing crimson and gold. Harry himself always seemed preoccupied with one thing or another, his demeanour enough to keep most casual acquaintances at arm’s length. Of course, he’d gotten the sense lately that he’d gotten a frosty reception from the dark-haired boy, something that Terry Boot assured him was due to his involvement with Ginny. In the end, it mattered little - Harry was a good enough teacher to keep Michael coming back despite the risk. With the absolute uselessness of their official Defence Against the Dark Arts tutelage, any form of extra credit work would be greedily accepted. “To be honest, I don’t know much about the whole business. That lot decides on where and when, the rest of us just show up. Granger’s a good egg about it,” He agreed, fully believing that Hermione’s support had kept the entire group afloat. “I reckon the entire thing would never have gotten off the ground without her.”

Michael was further surprised by the girl’s nonchalance, figuring that she’d want to shepherd him as quickly back to his own tower as quickly as possible to hide her complicity. He didn’t begrudge her offer however, feeling more at ease this time as his dark eyes melt and held her green ones more softly. “You sure? I don’t want to drag you into this. Though,” he added, thinking about the situation they found themselves in and the way they’d managed to rid themselves of the rest of the squad. “I s’pose it’s a bit late for that. Sorry ‘bout that. Though, it’s your own fault really, running around with all those gits and their ruddy ‘I’s.” he said playfully, finding a small grin as he pushed his bodyweight off the wall, finally ready to make a mile and leave behind the scene of the crime. He was anticipating an uneventful trip back towards the upper reaches of the castles, a quiet walk back towards his Common Room, when the girl’s own mischievous nature seemed to kick in. Immediately, the boy froze, one eyebrow craning skyward while the other remained fixed firmly in place, incredulous at the notion. “Wait, sorry - I could have sworn that you were suggesting we knick off down to the kitchens, that are in the opposite direction of Ravenclaw tower, for a butterbeer. Beg your pardon, but you’re not suggesting that. Are you?”

LEAVE IT TO THEODORE TO PICK OUT  the discrepancies in their story. Anthea looked back at the student they had cornered in the mostly deserted corridor. For the danger he knew he was in, he was holding himself up considerably well. He had teeth. He was pretty evidently BARING them. She worried, however, when she saw the color deepening in his face, the drop in confidence… 

Oh. Well shite. She hadn’t expected to hear that – she hadn’t even known they had broken up! Though, mind you, Thea didn’t know much about the months-long stint Corner had with the youngest Weasley…only that it had been a Thing, and that it made her brother fidget. Well, more than usual. 

She felt bad, really. The bloke was clearly still dealing with the severed ties of his freshly busted up relationship and there she went and yanked at them. It wasn’t like the girl had any obligation to him or anything, but neither was she heartless. Michael Corner had never given Anthea Potter a reason to be unkind. Damn it, she didn’t like feeling guilt. She had enough of it EATING at her insides, she didn’t need more. Drawing in a breath through her nose and lifting her chin, she tried to give the impression that she hadn’t just deflated at Corner’s admission. 

…but she realized he was still spinning his thread, here. The sob story about being dumped, though she didn’t necessarily doubt its authenticity, was part of the bigger ploy. Viridian eyes connected with Nott’s brown, holding a silent discussion, weighing what each other thought, before Thea turned to Goyle habitually and took a double take at his cluelessness. Again she looked at Nott, who’s eyes flickered from the dimmest among their triad back to her, and then Corner spoke again. 

It was plausible. His emotions could be stretched so thin that he walked right out without his things. She thought it was not-too-shabby an excuse, and from the looks of her friend beside her, he could see it too. Still, playing it safe, Anthea fixed her expression with a mask of distrust, trying to APPEAR as though she was weighing everything he’d told them. Nott opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off.

“Oi!” The three of them snapped their heads to see Blaise Zabini at the mouth of the corridor just ten meters away. He flicked his arm in annoyance, tossing his head in the direction he was headed. “Stun him and bring him or let him go, but Parkinson and Malfoy think they found something,” said the darkly toned boy. His eyes moved to Corner and sat heavily on him for a moment, before moving to Thea and Nott…completely overlooking Goyle…not that he seemed to care. 

This was it. This was their out. 

“You two go ahead. I’ll keep an eye on this one,” Thea decided, nodding her head upward in Michael’s direction. She schooled a predatory STILLNESS into the stare she set on their prey. “If he’s not being truthful, I’ll bring him to Umbridge’s office. Go. We wouldn’t want to deprive Dragonbreath and Puginson of an audience.” Zabini was too far away to hear, but her sting towards Draco and Pansy earned her a tired and moderately irritated glare from Nott. 

Both boys knew she was fairly inept with her wand, but apparently lay enough confidence in her other talents to feel she could handle this one on her own – or Nott legitimately did believe Corner’s excuse. Either way, he waved Goyle on, leaving Anthea with a clap on the back and a ‘talk later’. 

Thea kept her eyes on Corner and listened to the retreating steps of her housemates, counting how many echoes she heard from the adjacent hall to determine how far they were, and at last, she released a heavy breath. 

“Seriously?” she stage-whispered accusingly whilst stepping toward the Ravenclaw. Looking around them, she checked to be sure they were alone before completely dropping the act. She pocketed her wand with such frustration that she missed her target not once but twice, and finally looked down to shove it into place. “Salazar’s spit, Corner – Are you trying to get the lot of you flayed alive!?”

Michael had often heard people wax poetical about silver linings - that at the core of every dreary, ugly storm cloud lay a glinting thread of happiness that provided some solace. It was a glimmer of joy in a sea of sorrow. He’d always thought it a silly notion, not only from a scientific perspective but also from a metaphorical one, but he’d also never truly seen a situation that fit the description so aptly as this. If the gloom that addled his mind was the break-up that still wrenched at his heartstrings, it was also the thread of hope that he’d needed. Trumped up to suit the situation though it may be, Ginny Weasley’s decision to end the relationship could have saved the entire lot of Dumbledore’s Army from discovery.

Inwardly, Michael stifled a sardonic laugh at the notion that his emotional turmoil was providing him with a chance at escaping this situation unscathed. For their part, the trio of Slytherins displayed a series of mixed reactions to his excuse. From confusion - Goyle, perpetually - to doubt - Nott, naturally - to a veiled sense of discomfort and compassion - Potter, confusingly - Corner’s explanation gave them pause. For a brief moment, the young man screwed his eyes tightly shut and begged silently for a distraction, some sort of saving grace that would once and for all deliver him from this situation. Something, anything, that he could use to his advantage to slip back towards Ravenclaw tower and put the entire ordeal behind him.

His deus ex machina came, ironically, in the form of another of the merry band of Slytherin students, once again bearing the dreaded ‘I’ on his lapel. Initially, the sound of Blaise Zabini’s voice seemed to spell further trouble for the Ravenclaw student. More eyes warranted further scrutiny, and Michael’s confidence in his ruse began to falter as the other boy approached. It quickly became clear that the other boy wasn’t seeking to pile on but instead wanted the rest of the crowd to follow his lead back down the corridor and, most importantly, away from Ravenclaw tower. Though the indication that Malfoy and Parkinson had potentially located some sort of clue caused Michael’s heart to push into his throat, he couldn’t afford himself time to worry about what they may or may not have found. After all, it was his skin currently at risk - the rest of the crowd had slipped out a good deal before him and were likely all safe back in the dormitories. For a moment, the entire situation stood perched on a knife’s edge. All it would take was a slightly nudge, one way or the other, to either doom the young man or swing the outcome in his favour. Michael opened his mouth to speak but was beaten to the punch by the fiery-haired girl.

Her words were spoken with enough disdain that Michael himself believed them for a moment. It was only when her eyes met his that he saw the same desperation to be rid of the rest of the students that he found his confidence once more, sighing theatrically and crossing his arms in a huff for the benefit of the other boys. It took every ounce of his will to keep his relief in check as the group slowly turned heel and followed Blaise back down the hall, finally leaving Michael alone with Harry Potter’s sister in the middle of the now-empty hall.

The girl’s apparently frazzled nerves seemed to match his own frayed patience, the accusation causing his brows to furrow despite himself. While he remained proud of his improvisational skills, Michael knew without a stitch of doubt that Anthea’s influence was the reason that he walked free. “We’re not the ones hunting people in the hallways. Besides, the lot of them left about 20 minutes before me - they’re all fine. It would only have be me getting flayed,” he corrected a little more haughtily than he’d have like. Swallowing hard, the young man took a deep breath and pushed down his slight resentment, instead focusing on the immense sensation of gratitude that was clearly more important.

IMPROVISING WAS GOOD BUT WOULD only get him so far unless he had some support. Thea dipped her head, holding the Ravenclaw’s gaze from beneath her lashes before shifting her eyes to the boys to her side. As most would expect Goyle was lost, the boy’s eyes screwed bemusedly as though Corner was speaking Mermish. Nott’s eyes were narrowed with scrutiny. He could be swayed; Theodore Nott could see reason beyond bias and could be objective despite his upbringing, and Goyle….well. He could be thrown off course easily enough. Anthea just had to be SUAVE enough to facilitate the reason. 

She could do this. They could throw them off of his trail.

“You’re not charting it, are you?” The redhead sneered dubiously, choosing to play along from her own angle. Whether or not Sinistra had actually given anyone such an assignment or not didn’t matter, here. The two Slytherin boys would know no better, and if this was Corner’s door of escape (and by extension, the rest of the club’s), she’d give him as much breadth as she could. 

“That’s due in two days! It’s not like a Ravenclaw to procrastinate. Maybe a little less time cavorting with Weasley and a little more time with your nose in the books, eh?” Yes, she HAD to play it up with a smirk which was seen by the boys. Personally she was indifferent to his frolicking around with Ginny as long as he didn’t hurt her. But for the benefit of their silently joined cause, she had to play the part.

Beside them, Goyle giggled quietly at her mockery, his shoulders bouncing with it. Nott appeared to be considering the mirage she and Corner were throwing up in front of them. “Still, it’s past curfew,” the middle of the three Slytherin’s interjected. “Assignment or no, you need permission to be outside your common room at this hour. Sinistra would have given you a note to permit you to be out past curfew. Show us.” Nott spoke the words calmly and with an air of fair reason that was convincing despite the gleam of skepticism in his dark eyes. 

It was very likely he’d caught on, and it was due to his friendship and understanding with Thea that he was willing to stand back as as much as he was. 

The sound of his voice echoed briefly down the deserted hallways before the pall of silence fell over the group once again. Michael crossed his arms slowly, performing the perfunctory gesture with a calculated apathy, certain to take enough time to ensure the group didn’t sense it as a threat but slow enough to give the air of casual indifference. Under his cloak, the boy’s muscles were taut, guitar strings tightly wound and ready to be plucked at a moments notice. His chest lifted and fell as gently as he could manage while his mind performed the mental calculus that led him a simple, inescapable conclusion: The chances of pulling himself out from under the wands of the Inquisitorial Squad unscathed were slim to none.

The faintest glimmer of hope appeared in the inscrutable eyes of the redheaded Potter who lingered behind her two housemates. Michael’s eyes scanned the girl as calmly as he could, trying to discern any chance at assistance that she may be providing. He found only the faintest suggestion of the same emotion he worried was etched all over his body playing on her face - fear. Could she be afraid for him - for her brother and his friends? Or was she simply afraid of the potential confrontation that would undoubtedly be coming should he be unable to convince the other lads of his innocence? His eyes shot between the figures of the two boys briefly before the girl’s sneered response cut through the tension.

Her question sat in his mind for a long moment, the words within carrying much more weight than the derisive tone she’d used. Charting? He rolled the word back and forth, trying to decipher why the word seemed so deserving of the emphasis. It seemed obvious enough to him: If he were charting the position of the constellation, he’d need a whole load of parchment. The fact that his hands were devoid of the necessities to complete any sort of assignment didn’t seem lost on Nott, whose skeptical gaze seemed to bore holes through the Ravenclaw’s flimsy excuse. Michael began to feel increasingly exposed. Standing in an empty hall after hours with nothing but his wand tucked tightly against didn’t seem like a likely path to convincing the group of Slytherins of his upstanding intensions. He began to feel the heat rising in his cheeks, his stomach continuing to churn viciously.

Just as Michael began to believe that the building panic would overtake him, the girl’s second comment provided at once a welcome distraction from his predicament and a perfect excuse for the blush he now knew he wore. “We’re, erm - not,” Michael replied pointedly, referring to the time that he had supposedly been wasting with Ginny. His eyes fell momentarily to pick a spot on the floor, briefly picturing the girl he’d recently been involved with. Clearly the group of green-and-silver-clad students hadn’t heard about their most recent disagreement which had finally ended the tumultuous few months of their relationship. This time, the heat in his cheeks burned with actual embarrassment as he recalled his petty, churlish response to the recent Gryffindor-Ravenclaw quidditch match in which the Weasley girl had been the architect of his house’s destruction. His gaze flashed upwards once more, realizing he’d spent more time than was wise silent, and he matched Anthea’s eyes once more. “So, yeah - I’ve been a bit distracted. Turns out having your girlfriend realize that you’ve been an utter prat and break up with you isn’t really the best way to get schoolwork done,” He shot back, trying to match the girl’s venom with little success.

Once more, the stand-off continued; Goyle seemed satisfied to snigger conspiratorially and point his wand at Michael’s head. He was an empty robe and nothing more. Despite her tone, Anthea seemed at worst ambivalent about his presence in the hall and at best like an active ally at trying to throw her two housemates off the scent. It was Nott that would really dictate how this situation would go. His question seemed to tear another wide hole in Michael’s excuse, but it also illuminated the corner of his mind that still ruminated on Potter’s first question. Slowly, the pieces of a legitimate excuse began to take shape in his mind. Of course the girl had seen he was empty handed - not only missing the supplies to complete his schoolwork, but also lacking the note that would justify his presence outside of his dormitory. His recent heartache, however, could provide some cover for the lack of care a young man might take when leaving his common room without the bag he was supposed to carry with him. A bag that could, conceivably, have everything that one might need to chart the position of Orion over the course of the night - including the non-existent permission slip. “You’re right - she did write me a note. But I’ve been so bloody out of it I forgot to grab my school bag from my chest before I headed down here. Only realized I’d made the whole damned walk without it after getting up to the Astronomy Tower,” he lied through gritted teeth, jerking his head over his shoulder in the direction of the tower.

@ofherage

Not many people could possibly find the search for a particularly rare and antiquated medical text enthralling, but it absorbed Michael far more than he’d care to admit. He knew full well most people would consider the material dry and useless and the search for the tome utterly dull. He was aware how esoteric the volume was - an old, leathery and worn encyclopedia of antiquated, long-forgotten healing spells from the middle ages. Michael had come across it in the St. Mungo’s library, and though it was completely pointless to read from a work standpoint, he wanted nothing more than to snatch the heavy book from the hospital for his own personal bookshelf. He didn’t foresee finding the old book on a shelf at Flourish and Blotts, but he supposed that it was the best place to start, short of soliciting the help of Madam Pince.

He meandered through the narrow, twisting aisles of Flourish and Blotts, his eyes roaming the various spines in the ‘Healing’ section of the store. Most of the volumes on the shelves were newer - their content demonstrating the evolution of the Healing arts over the last few centuries. Still, despite their infinitely useful contents, Michael found himself disappointed by the futile search. The search was borne mostly of the romanticism of the old ways - the hastily sketched diagram, the rudimentary understanding of human physiology, all coupled with the more arcane and unrefined versions of spells used thousands of times since. The text would be utterly useless in his day to day life, but the promise of being able to search the worn pages of such a tome over a quiet tumbler of scotch was intoxicating. He found his disappointed building with each new, shiny spine that faced his eyes. Still, despite the continued assault on his eyes from the bookshelves all around him, it was a face in the next aisle over that caught his attention.

“Hermione...Granger?” He asked tentatively, peering around the bookshelf that obstructed his view. “’s that you? Bloody hell, it’s been what...five years?” He guessed, finding a particularly bothersome spot on his scalp to itch quizzically as he tried to recall the last time he’d bumped into the former Gryffindor. 

“What’re you looking for?” He added, trying to bridge the gap way from the moment of silence that hung in the air between the old classmates.

send me ✗ for my muse to fall on yours and land on top of them

send me □ for your muse to fall on mine and land on top of them

send me ♕ for your muse to get dared to kiss me

send me ♢ for my muse to get dared to kiss yours

send me ♫ for your muse to catch mine singing in the shower

send me ♩ for my muse to catch yours singing in the shower

send me ♡ for your muse to drunkenly confess feelings to mine

send me ☽ for my muse to drunkenly confess feelings to yours

send me △ for my muse to get trapped in a small closet with yours

send me ❅ for my muse to cuddle up next to yours while asleep on the couch

Ask a question, any question! Because I have nothing better to do than to answer your questions. ... No, really. I don't. D:

1: What does their bedroom look like?

2: Do they have any daily rituals?

3: Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

4: What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?

5: Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

6: Eating habits and sample daily menu

7: Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

8: Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging

9: Makeup?

10: Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

11: Intellectual pursuits?

12: Favorite book genre?

13: Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

14: Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)

15: Biggest and smallest short term goal?

16: Biggest and smallest long term goal?

17: Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

18: Favorite beverage?

19: What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

20: Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?

21: Turn-ons? Turn-offs?

22: Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

23: How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

24: Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?

25: How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

26: Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?

27: What is their biggest regret?

28: Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?

29: Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

30: Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)

31: Most prized possession?

32: Thoughts on material possessions in general?

33: Concept of home and family?

34: Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)

35: What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

36: What makes them feel guilty?

37: Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?

38: What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

39: Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?

40: How misanthropic are they?

41: Hobbies?

42: How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?

43: Religion?

44: Superstitions or views on the occult?

45: Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?

46: If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?

47: How do they express love?

48: If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

;— careful fear and dead devotion; I can’t get the balance right

Multi-Era (HP), Multi-Ship, Semi-Selective Michael Corner blog

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Hey everyone! Réal here, the Mun behind Michael. 18+ Muse/Mun, looking for slower paced, 1x1 roleplays set in any HP verse (Founders, Marauder, Golden Trio, Next Gen, etc). Open to multiple interactions and varying post lengths, from gif chats to paras and anything in between. Can be romantic or platonic, dramatic or mundane, plot driven or character focused! Message me if you’re looking for a partner to plan with or just want to chat about the possibility of writing together. :)

WAS IT POSSIBLE TO BREAK your teeth? Could clenching them too hard for too long cause them to crack and break off? Anthea considered it for a passing moment as they patrolled the corridor. Nott and Crabbe appeared almost bored at her side; to them it was another night of patrolling to try and spy any wandering students who seemed suspect, NAMELY anyone coming from Her Brother’s Club. They probably expected it to be another uneventful, fruitless four hours. Thea, on the other hand, was restless with the worry that it wouldn’t be. 

Sooner or later they had to see something, right? There were like thirty some-odd students in the club at least – at some point one of them would slip up, either verbally or literally step from their hideout at the wrong moment…right? 

She dreaded it. She dreaded the moment their badges lit up and they all raced back to Umbridge’s office to see her brother, or a friend, or someone else grossly undeserving of whatever horrific punishment that Pink Toad would dole out.

“ HEY! STOP RIGHT THERE! ” 

Damn it all to hell. Beside her the two previously bored Slytherin’s were vibrating with energy. Fuck! Shite shite shite why hadn’t she lead them AWAY from this corridor? As crafty and clever as she fancied herself she hadn’t come up with a way to divert them from what she feared was the right direction!

Despite the heaviness of the lead that was settling in the soles of her feet, she sped up with the other two to MAINTAIN the charade, mirroring them by pulling out her useless wand and pointing it at Michael Corner, the poor Ravenclaw whose facial expression mimed the obscenities she’d been thinking.

Anthea rarely froze. And yet in this instant she was IMMOBILE as wands raised and she knew what was coming. Michael was about to be stunned and rendered unable to do anything to defend himself while Umbridge did literally whatever she wanted to extract information of the DA’s whereabouts from him. The power-crazed nefarious flamingo bitch was going to find out where her brother and the rest of the club were meeting and Godric only knew what she’d do to them. Expulsion would be nothing.  

&. | CLOSED STARTER for @corner-m

Initially, it had been like playing a game of cat and mouse, albeit with a rather witless cat chasing the spectres of 30-odd mice around a never-ending series of corridors. The prospect of the so-called ‘Inquisitorial Squad’ managing to track down the whereabouts of anything save a few hapless first years caught trying to raid a pantry in the kitchen seemed absurdly low. In fact, it had become a sort of running joke amongst members of the rag-tag group of would-be defectors known as ‘Dumbledore’s Army’ that the only thing the Inquisitors would catch would be a swift kick in the rear from their toady leader when they inevitably returned empty handed. Their presence in the school, and by extension their mission to root out rule-breakers, was seen as an inconvenience and not much more. A nuisance to be sure, but nothing to lose sleep over. And so it went for weeks - the few lonely members of the squad would aimlessly wander the castle, searching for them. The DA, with Granger’s ingenious coins and enough watchful eyes to coordinate their meetings, would deftly avoid contact and go about their meetings undisturbed.

Cats, however, have a propensity for learning the patterns of mice. With enough patience and a little luck, it’s only a matter of time before one unlucky mouse is caught. As the weeks and months passed, the nuisance the opposing group of students posed grew from something to be annoyed with into something to be feared. Their numbers swelled further each week, along with the passion and ferocity of their staff sponsor. Despite their best efforts, it seemed that where they’d initially been free and clear of the threat of discovery, the cats were now hot on the mice’s trail.

He’d considered not attending the meeting that evening. Between the two feet due for Charms the next morning and the bitterly cold drafts gusting through the castle, Michael had half a mind to tuck himself firmly into bed and pass along his regrets. The allure of the spells missed though, of what he could be learning instead of sitting around the airy confines of his dormitory, drew him in. After a long, hard session spent practicing the finer points of the Levicorpus Jinx, it had been his turn to stay behind and clean up. After massing up the mounds of pillows and mattresses the Room of Requirement had been kind enough to have waiting for them, Michael yawned and glanced down at his wristwatch. He furrowed his brow at the result - It was later than he’d have liked, especially given the Charms homework that waited dutifully for him in his dormitory. Without second thought, Michael pushed open the door and began to make haste back towards Ravenclaw Tower.

He’d scarcely made it ten steps when he heard the sneering voice. Instantly, Michael froze in his tracks, the hairs on the back of his neck causing a gentle tingling sensations as his muscles remained taut. He remained motionless, save for a covert slip of the wrist, allowing the wand that was in his hand to tuck gently into his sleeve. Of all the bloody people, it’s going to be me, he thought, a sense of misery twisting his stomach into a tight knot as he spun slowly on his heels to face the source of the voice.

In front of him, three students bearing the familiar ‘I’ stood in front of him - the two boys, Goyle and Nott, with their wands raised menacingly. A short distance behind them, inscrutable as always, the figure of Anthea Potter hovered in the dim light. Her eyes seemed as wide as saucers as he met her gaze with clenched teeth, uncertain of the intentions of the sister of the dear leader of Michael’s group. She, at least, didn’t seem to match the intimidating posture of her two fellow Slytherins, though Michael wondered briefly if this was more down to hope than truth. Steadying himself, the Ravenclaw lifted his arms slowly into the air, trying to appear as innocent as possible. 

@vainedvulpine

It had become a bit of a habit as of late; so much so that the days would blend together into a haze. 

The routine was well-worn. First, spend countless bleary hours manning the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s, attempting to reverse the often horrific effects of a misplaced spell. Then, stumble one’s way into the nearest pub, often crowded with raucous crowds of muggles kitted-out in their team’s finest, shouting obscenities at the telly. Fight for a snug with a decent view of the match before tucking in to some hearty fare. Drink the night away quietly, paying homage to his Irish lineage with pint after pint of stout. Duck out the back entrance. Apparate home and fall drowsily into an unkempt bed only to rise the next morning with a pounding headache. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

He’d been keeping up this pace for --what? Weeks? Months? It seemed impossible to unravel where this branch on the timeline began to diverge from that of the normally studious, hard-working lad who’d made a custom of top marks. Wherever it had begun, it was clear that the stress of the final year of his training program was continually wearing away at the young man, like the crashing waves ground steadily into the stony shoreline; try as it might, not even the immovable rocks could bear the relentless pressure of the water. For Michael, he was truly between a rock and a hard place - caught between the demands of the Head Healer and the constant desire to hide away from the world for a month, even if only to catch up on sleep.

This particular night had been no different - the football match had long since finished, the patrons shuffling out the door with the ecstasy of a late winner still on their lips. Left behind with the smell of stale beer sent enthusiastically into the air was the dark-haired man tucked into a corner booth, four empty glasses pushed to one side with a dog-eared medical tome splayed across the table. Michael’s dark rimmed eyes scanned the page, searching for the information relevant to his latest case, while his hand grasped clumsily for the glass that still contained some of the black liquid. He lifted the beer wordlessly to his mouth, never breaking his gaze with the his page, as he gulped greedily at the ale. It was only as the base of the glass scraped against the worn table that the young man noticed the shadow being cast across the table, blocking what little light reached his quiet corner of the pub.

“The light’s bad enough in here as it is,” he ventured gently, brows furrowed as he attempted to decipher the tiny print in the failing light. Without looking up at the source of the intrusion, he implored politely in the direction of the shadow. “D’you mind stepping to the side? Unless you’ve got another pint with you, then you can stay as long as you like.”

The question leapt from his lips, accompanied by a gentle shake of the head. Like a judgemental brother, he mused reproachfully, admonishing himself for his tone while his hands busied themselves with the wand work to set up the line for sutures. Usually though, it was the older ones who tended to feel this way - the inverse was less common.

It had become second nature, though. Stitching up Katie Bell after some sort of mishap had become nearly a right of passage amongst fledgling healers in the unit, a live mannequin upon which to practice their craft. Her reckless joi-de-vivre seemed to be entwined with an unmatched clumsiness that resulted in a litany of minor injuries, enough for the entire Healer-in-Training program to practice on the young woman. For his part, Michael enjoyed Katie’s company enough to never mind the additional practice - though he could do with having the girl’s blood on his instruments far less often.

That means I’m stuck inside a lot more, and inevitably I get the urge to get back into writing.

It couldn’t have happened on any typical morning - one where he’d gotten a full night’s sleep, for instance. Or even one where he’d at least been able to suck back the contents of the cup of coffee that nestled snugly into his palm, radiating the type of warmth he wished his face showed. At the very least, Michael desperately wished that he’d managed to squeeze in the shower he’d neglected to take, rationalizing that another day spent in Spell Damage wearing the bottle-green scrubs of a Healer wouldn’t necessitate tip-top personal hygiene. Still, these sorts of encounters never seemed to occur on your ideal schedule - instead, life had a way of ensuring that they occurred precisely when you least anticipated or wanted them to.

It was, as always, her hair that gave her away. The early morning sun peaking over the ramshackle rooftops of Diagon Alley caused a ruby red glint to catch in his eye as the young woman ahead of him held the door to the coffee shop open for him to proceed behind her. Momentarily, and involuntarily, Michael’s body attempted to lurch forward, as in a trance. One that would take he and his unkempt mane of hair and untouched coffee past the figure of his former flame. Instead, the movement came out haltingly, causing the young man to stride forward resolutely, as though he were willing himself to confront the situation head on. In truth, the former Ravenclaw wanted nothing more than to slip past the redhead unnoticed, only to bury himself in the anticipated workload that awaited him once he cleared the doors of St. Mungo’s Hospital. Instead, due to a combination of dumb luck and painstaking hesitation, the girl’s dark eyes met his own just as his feet ceased carrying him forward, leaving him perched inconveniently blocking the doorway, face to face with Ginerva Weasley. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Michael managed, a strained smile on his face while his mind raced with a thousand insecurities. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep his hand from shooting up to his messy hair, attempting to tame the knots of dark hair that sat askew on his forehead. “You - you look well.”