𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑳 𝑮𝑶𝑫𝑺 𝑲𝑵𝑰𝑭𝑬 𝒀𝑶

The night was the best time for her to do business, many liked to stick to the shadows and out of sight, which was more than fine by her. But tonight it was about planning and working a new angle for the cause, having spent quite some time in the concealed wine cellar at the White Wyvern going over all the facts they knew now with Regina in their grasp. As she was leaving though, she did have to dodge a few drunks stumbling out of the establishments after last call but she didn’t expect to see Larkin lurking about as well. “Relax, Mulciber, no need to use that wand.”

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UPON catching sight of the raven-haired witch, Larkin lowers his wand at once, not wanting to seem impertinent. “I apologize,” he replies, visibly tucking his wand back into his coat. “I’ve been a bit restless…” he admits, letting out a hurried, uncharacteristic sigh. “I thought a walk would remedy my agitation.” Out of his fellow Death Eaters, he held a great amount of respect for the oldest Black heiress. “I suppose it’s because progress feels slow.” Larkin is impatient, especially when he is bored of his daily tasks. 

“Feckin’ hell ye jokin’ me-” The witch jumped at the sound of the voice almost dropping her wand which had a soft lumos illuminating from the end of it to light the cobbled path under the dimness of the overcast night. Saoirse had hoped to watch the stars in admiration like she did so often, only for her eyes to simply be met with ominous clouds that hovered like a luring warning over the bright moon. She’d been making her way back home, unware she’d ventured into the darker part of the Alley’s when she’d come face to face with the other. “Ye always lurk in dark shadows like a gremlin or ye just like makin’ folks jump for the shits and giggles- feck me-” Sersh huffed as she straightened the tote bag on her shoulder a blew a puff of air from her cheeks; raising her wand a little higher to illuminate the features of the male before her. “Sorry fella- didn’t mean to scare ye either- were just walkin’, they need to put more lanterns down here ay? Most can’t see a feckin’ thin’ at the best of times let alone when it looks like the sky’s gunna piss it down.”

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THE other’s accent is thick and in his face, a jolt from the relative peace from before. He’s almost shocked at her affability, chatting away about the streets and lanterns that for a moment, he is at a loss for words. “Er,” he begins, trying to decide where he should start. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says. Larkin squints, still unable to make out the exact features of the witch, even as he senses a familiarity from her voice. “As for the lighting, dark corners can be useful, but I suppose it’s fairly impractical if we’re running into other people all the time.” Pausing, he furrows his brow. “What are you doing standing out here anyways?” 

Tasked with locking up the Leaky Cauldron after a late-night finish. Peter held the charmed key in the palm of his hand, his wand tightly gripped in the other. With the current climate of attacks, he wasn’t willing to take any risks. It would be one thing if he survived the attacker, and a complete other task to survive the wrath of Thomas Dodderidge, his manager. The sound of footsteps on the cobblestones approaching, Peter squinted to catch glimpse of the person. Scoffing as he discovered Larkin Mulciber, gripping his wand. “Oi, no need to shit yourself. Although, it is very entertaining.” @deathsvoid​ 

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THE sight of Peter Pettigrew is an unpleasant one for Larkin, who’d despised the other along with the rest of his crew during his time at Hogwarts. “Glad to see that you’re still quite the dolt, Pettigrew.” He makes a show of lowering his wand, as if he didn’t see the other wizard as a viable threat. “Unsurprising, really. You’re working as a barman, aren’t you?” Not that Larkin had any leg to stand on, given to the general population, his entire life is a mysterious dark cloud. 

Over the years of all sorts of odd pub jobs, Jonathan became quite good at memorizing faces. He’d seen this man before. One of the select few who would often come and head to the back without a word. He had been told by the pub’s owner to just keep his eyes down and let them go about their business; one of the only rules he followed to a tee. “No need to get so defensive with the person who controls how much junk gets in that glass.” Jon responded, crossing his arms. Not that he ever would spit in a patron’s glass, even that was too far for someone like him.

“I’ve got places to be tonight. Yet here I am instead.” he said simply. Places to be, or rather a paticular woman to meet. With that, his eyes drifted back towards the old clock on the wall before back to Larkin.| @deathsvoid​

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AT the other’s reply, Larkin raises an inquisitive brow. Had he misread the other? The barman is far more measured than he’d initially assumed, who seemed far more resigned than annoyed by Larkin’s question. No, he’s not looking to start a fight, but the nature of his personality always desired to grate on people’s nerves.

“Better places to be, is it?” He snorts. “And where would that be?” He swirls his half-full glass; he’s never cared much for alcohol in the first place, only getting something to keep up appearances. “Looks like you’re in a rush to finish your shift.” 

It was late, way too late for Emilia to be hanging around in Knockturn Alley, but Emilia was determined to get another story for the Prophet and she had thought that maybe she would overhear something if she hung around for a while. So far though, she had had little luck and she could already hear Keira’s chastising if she knew what she was up to. But Emilia paid her older sister no mind when it came to that, she thought Keira worried too much. Looking around she spotted a lone figure a few feet away in the shadows and slowly made her way towards them. Whoever it was had to be up to no good, she was sure of it. And they didn’t see her, which was even better. Maybe her night was finally turning around. But then she stepped down onto something that made a crunching sound that seemed louder than it should have been and the person noticed her, and his face came into the light. Larkin Mulciber. Her stomach lurched and her hand hovered over where she was keeping her wand. “Mulciber. Fancy meeting you here,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her words. 

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THE recognition takes a moment — but soon enough, Larkin’s face darkens with an insidious grin, flickering between raw delight and measured apathy as he turns to fully face the woman. “Well, that’s no way to greet an old Housemate, is it?” He matches her sardonic tone, letting out a little sigh, almost as if he is disappointed to hear her so tense. But even so, he does not loosen the grip on his wand, sure that Emilia has already reached for her own. Despite her blood status, he is not stupid enough to deny that she is a clever witch. “Not in the mood for a chat, are you? Shame — I read your article in the Prophet; riveting stuff you’re writing…” Again, he continues with the sarcasm. He didn’t care much for the Prophet, preferring to gather his news from closer sources, but in a short time, the young witch had seemingly amassed some sort of social capital that Larkin never would have imagined her having. 

…

Insomnia was the absolute bane of her existence.  Hours of rustling around in bed was a waste.  After years of struggling with sleep she had learned the things that worked for her, namely taking a walk.  There was something about the movement, about the fresh air, that would sometimes help her drift off.  It didn’t seem to working today, but she wasn’t fully ready to toss in the towel yet.  

She raised her brows as the voice sounded from the dark shadows.  Fear was a weakness she had left behind long ago.  She still felt the tightening of her throat and the increase of heart beats, but she simply decided that dwelling on those feelings was far more likely to hold her back than her name or the perception others had of her.  She hadn’t found success by allowing fear to get in the way.  “Look at you skulking about the shadows like a bloody ghoul,” she chuckled.  “Had enough of the chaos over on Knockturn Alley, have you?”

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STOPPING in his tracks, Larkin furrows his brow, shoving a hand into his pockets. “If it seemed that way, it wasn’t my intention,” he replies stonily. “But I suppose that’s somewhat true. I can’t hear myself think down there.” He points back to Knockturn over his shoulder, though he does not take his eyes off of the other. He has learned to see most strangers as the enemy, even if the other is mildly familiar in face and voice. “And yourself?” Larkin lets go of some of his tension, regarding her with a curious eye. “You hardly seem the type to revel in the debauchery that arises in Knockturn Alley.”

She couldn’t stop the hint of a smile from appearing on her face at the sound of his voice.  Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but she thought she detected a hint of annoyance, something she found endlessly amusing from him.  It didn’t bother her much, she knew that she was delightful.  “Ah yes,” she smiled at him.  “that would be the case if that weren’t exactly where I was coming from.  I had some business to attend to in the Department of Mysteries that was a bit time sensitive, and I thought I’d pop down her to see if it was worth getting a drink before heading home.  But I can see the crowd as turned a bit… sour.”  

She didn’t like Larkin, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to not be okay.  In an ideal world the only suffering that would take place would be that which was necessary to make the world a better and safer place for all.  A bit of collateral damage was often necessary in the pursuit of progress.  “I do, actually.  But it’s fine if you’d rather not share.”

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HIS expression stays stoic, gaze trained on Rowena, tension hanging palpable in the air. “Sour?” he asks. “Are you referring to me, or whatever rabble that’s hanging around the Alley at this time of night?” Frankly, he doesn’t care either way; whether or not Rowena finds him pleasant to be around is virtually nonexistent on his priority list, if only because he has far more pressing matters to worry about.

Yet, she still cares in some way, and being on the receiving end of that consideration is something Larkin is wholly unused to. For the first time of the night, his expression changes into one of skittish skepticism. “I suppose you’re only asking because you want to know what I’m up to,” he answers. 

@deathsvoid​

“It would be a disservice to myself if I agree with that statement. One is never too old to cause mischief, something I don’t really expect to stop,” James knew that as he grew up he definitely changed his antics. Not hexing random students, instead learning how to care about the many. The only thing that stayed with him was the daring portion, only choosing to do it to himself and no one else. “Depends on the mischief you’re causing Larkin, if it’s harming anyone in anyway then it’s considered dangerous,” he pushed his glasses up glancing at him as if calculating the other’s reactions. “If it’s a simple bit of fun – which I can’t see any of that happening with your group – you’re not dangerous.”

It was a small jab, nothing to painful as to keep it as lighthearted as bullying can be. A normal James Potter move.

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THE way he so neatly ties up his thoughts in his nonchalant, unperturbed way grates on Larkin’s nerves. What was so great about James Potter anyways? It was painfully clear that they’ve never liked each other, yet the other insisted on maintaining a civility that Larkin had no intention of reciprocating.

“Fun — I think you’ll come to know that what I consider a good bit of fun is quite different from your own definition,” he replies coolly. “Besides, isn’t this all that this is? A difference in perspective?” And even he knows it’s much, much larger than that, but he feels on getting on James’s nerves just a tad more.

“Fabian Prewett,” he responded calmly to the question, having no reason to antagonize someone who already seemed on edge. He hadn’t really expected to run into anyone this late at night, and he’d hardly been watching where he was going. He’d been asked to close his mum’s healer shop, so she could go deal with something that required her immediate attention. He’d closed it hours ago, of course, but then he’d stayed there, taking advantage of some of the supplies from her stores that she had readily available for a pet project he’d been working on. He’d lost track of the time, and suddenly he checked his watch only to realize that he should have been home and in bed hours ago. 

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PREWETT; the name is familiar, of course, though it elicits none of the awe frequently associated with other Pureblood names. Larkin, however, had no patience to get in a brawl with him, finding it far below his current state of mind. He lowers his wand, slightly, but the hostile frown on his face remains. “You should think twice before sneaking up at people in the dark like that. I’m not responsible for whatever hex I throw at you.”

FOR all intents and purposes, this should have been an ordinary day – though Larkin never liked being much of an errand boy, he supposes that sometimes, it was nice not having to skulk around corners, doing the bidding of greater Death Eaters. Even so, the light is not something Larkin is used to, and walking under the gaze of daylight feels amiss. 

He knew the sun once. The unfettered warmth of its touch, the way it never discriminated who it’d touch. Of course, that was forever ago, lost to a space he no longer traversed, in fear of what it would reflect back onto his soul. Monsters could not be in the light, for they are unable to face their own monstrosity. Plainly said, Larkin Mulciber could not be good.  

It’s retribution then, when he files into the lift at the Ministry without looking. From the corner of his eye, he spots the bounce of brown curls, the curve of a familiar pair of lips  and his heart stops in his chest and falls the foot down into the pit of his stomach. Thankfully, there is a crowd between him and them to buffer the connection, but the connection is almost too forceful to bear. One by one, the other people file out of the lift, the robotic lilt of the phantom voice clucking away at each floor — all until it is just him and them, like it was before. 

Things had always seemed easier when it was just the two of them, sneaking away into their secret like their own world — but now? Now, the hesitance and tension is practically unbearable in its weight. Larkin never lets his guard down, but even now, his shoulders stay tight, his hands balled into fists by his side. He doesn’t dare to look at them, not even a single bit. In a few moments, the lift would stop and one of them would leave, and they would never have to speak again, not for another thousand years — 

The lift stops. The lights flicker. Larkin takes a sip of a breath, and holds, but nothing makes another sound or movement. Letting out his held breath, he releases himself from his tightened stance, careful to address the other without allowing himself a single glance. “This bloody thing’s stuck,” he says stiffly. “Do y’know how to fix this?”

Late nights at the Ministry weren’t common, but they were necessary from time to time when a particular spell or experiment required a watchful set of eyes.  And as one of the younger department members, as well as one without children, the late shifts often fell to her.  It wasn’t something that she minded.  It was nice being alone with the thoughts that filled the brain room, sometimes it was comforting to immerse herself into minds that weren’t her own, minds that didn’t necessarily come with the tricky ethical implications of looking into them.

She had just cut through Diagon Alley, checking on something in Knockturn Alley, when she spied a familiar figure up ahead.  Larkin Mulciber, lurking about the shadows.  It didn’t particularly surprise her.  He didn’t seem intoxicated, which was the case for most of those stumbling across the uneven streets.  It piqued her curiosity enough that she called out to him.  “It’s just Rowena,” she shrugged, knowing that he probably wouldn’t be happy to see her.  But she had never minded being the source of irritation.  Often times she found it amusing and leaned into it.  “You seemed a bit out of place.   Are you okay?”

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HE does not know if it’s relief or annoyance that spreads across his chest when Rowena shows herself. Larkin had long learned to suppress his emotions when it came to others, finding it useful for his magic and selfish interests alike. Tucking his wand away, he turns away from her and sighs, leaning against the brick wall.

“Do I?” It’s rhetorical, mostly because if he does look out of place, he doesn’t care to know or change it. “And you, Rowena Rowle, a Ministry employee — you’re looking quite out of place yourself. Strolling the streets of Diagon Alley at this hour doesn’t bode well for your reputation.” Eyes moving back to her, he studies her expression closely, seeing if he could glean anything from her face. “I’m sure you didn’t ask because you cared,” he starts, “but I’m perfectly fine.”

“Wand down Mulciber, I’m just trying to get home from work,” James held his hands up to show that he wasn’t a threat. “This isn’t Hogwarts, and I’m surprisingly an adult – so luckily you won’t have to deal with twat James,” he was exhausted, the forced smile on his face and the slight bit of eye bags he had tried his hardest to hide showed that perfectly clear. “I would ask what you’re doing out so late at night but then again you always seemed to be the night owl,” James placed his hands in his coat pockets keeping one hand closer to his wand. At the ready if the situation ever called for it. Considering the two of them never got along, James couldn’t put all his walls down.

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AND what if he still despised Potter, even with almost a decade between their last meeting? The other had always been the sort of bold that Larkin disliked — but then again, he supposes all Gryffindors had a habit of leaving a sour taste on his tongue.

But he lowers his wand out of courtesy (like James said, they are adults, after all) and narrows his eyes, studying the other’s expression. Larkin’s own is practically inscrutable, save for the usual pinched displeasure that graced his face. “Too old to cause mischief, is it?” he asks, almost tauntingly. “You know, I find it amusing how as children we’re allowed to cause all the mischief we want,” he adds, strolling into the light, allowing the moon to illuminate his presence. “But as soon as we’re legally able to wave our wands willy-nilly, I get labeled as dangerous.” 

AS most of Wizarding London lay fast asleep under the protective gaze of the moons and the stars, Larkin Mulciber is awake. Only late-night stragglers from the pubs in Knockturn Alley milled about, stepping wildly on the cobblestone, but Larkin is far from their state of mind. Eyes straight ahead, making long strides close to the shadows. He had every intention of continuing forwards to his destination when he hears something from the other direction, and his hand flies to his wand, gripping it. “Who’s there?” 

Where: The White Wyvern Who: Open

It had been a fairly normal evening at the pub for Jonathan; regular customers and the occasional new face came and went. Yet, for most of the night his eyes had been on the old clock on the wall and the figure at the end of the bar. Loners were a normal sight here, like most of Knockturn Alley. Yet something about this individual piqued Jonathan’s interest more than usual. After checking in on another customer, he changed his course towards the end of the bar. Stopping in front of the customer, he scanned them with his eyes before speaking, “What’s your deal? You’re hogging up prime real estate at my bar tonight,” his voice came out brash, “can I at least get you a top off, what’ve you been drinking?”

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LOOKING up, Larkin spots the barman approaching, nodding at his empty glass. Frankly, he didn’t make a habit out of drinking; he’d found it dulled his senses, making it far more difficult to control the power of his curses, but the White Wyvern was the place where most Death Eaters gathered. And despite what others surmised about his nature, Larkin never put up a fight for the battles that didn’t matter.

“My deal?” He pulls away his glass from the other’s reach on purpose, like a child hogging their toy. “Not sure,” he shrugs, “I’m not sure I had one until you came along.” He balances the cup on the bottom rim, gently spinning it around with magic. “What’s yours then?” Larkin narrows his eyes, placing his chin in hand making an effort to study the other’s gruff look. “You’re certainly not in a good mood.”

OPEN STARTER at THE LEAKY CAULDRON (that’s in london)

Constance had enough to do to keep herself busy but she couldn’t seem to focus on any one task for very long. She’d started and stopped re-organizing her room, and cleaning the kitchen and the toilets a number of times before she gave up. Most of the time she relished in her time alone. It was productive time regardless of what she actually did. Today, however, was not one of those days. 

She’d felt a nagging desire to be out among people that she’d ignored for long enough. With her sister at work along with a good number of her friends, she now found herself sitting at the bar of the Leaky Cauldron alone. It was the one place she knew people wouldn’t be in a hurry to leave and it was late enough in the evening that anyone with dinner plans would be there instead of here. When someone took the seat at the bar next to her she smiled in their direction and raised her mug. “I’m not sure if you’re looking for recommendations bur they’ve just gotten an aged knotgrass mead that’s to die for.”

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LARKIN turns, slow and deliberate. He’d slid into this seat after a group of drunkards had filed in and overtook his usual spot by the corner. Even now, they’d lifted their mugs high, serenading the rest of the pub with an off-key drinking song — brutes, Larkin thinks, regardless of what their blood status could be. 

Though, he supposes this is the price he pays for a little more anonymity, loitering about neutral grounds. What he’d prayed for earlier was a quiet night without the suffocating presence of Death Eaters — even Larkin tired of the constant talk on occasion, so he’d slinked out of Knockturn Alley into the brighter lights of Diagon. Technically, his wish had been kept intact. The woman before him was not a Death Eater (and not an Order member, as far as he knew), and he pulls a book out from under his arm and places it on the counter besides him. 

“And is this my cue to order you one?” It’s been a while since he’s allowed himself to be this cheeky, raising an inquisitive brow. “Tell me, do you make it a habit of recommending drinks to strangers?” The smallest lie, hidden in between the folds of his words, given that he’s recognized her face, but he refrains from voicing that thought.