porcelain, ivory, steel.

❝ i used to dream of being so strong nothing could shake me. now i am so strong that nothing shakes me and all i dream is to soften. ❞

{ cis woman, she/her } huh, who’s ADRIA ARJONA no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually ERIN FIGG. she is a 28 year old MUGGLEBORN witch who is AN ADMINSTRATIVE ASSISTANT AT THE WIZENGAMOT. she is known for being SECRETIVE, CYNICAL, SELF-NEGLECTFUL, OBSESSIVE, and FEARFUL but also JUST, AMBITIOUS, PRINCIPLED, LEVEL-HEADED, and DEVOTED, so that must be why she always reminds me of the song IF I’M BEING HONEST by DODIE and A BLOOD RED LIPSTICK MARK ON A DRAINED CUP OF COFFEE, SMOKING THROUGH THE CRACK OF YOUR WINDOW IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, STRIPED BLOUSES, EYELINER SHARP ENOUGH TO KILL A MAN, THE INABILITY TO SLEEP IF THE WORLD IS TOO QUIET, HEELED BOOTS and REFUSING TO WRITE WITH QUILLS. i hear she is aligned with NO ONE, so be sure to keep an eye on her.

ANGIE walks down the street quickly. She always does, even when she has nowhere to go. She’s found that when one walks briskly and with purpose, the chances of strangers trying to make conversation is massively reduced. Angelina does not usually enjoy conversations with people she knows, let alone strangers. As she reaches the old telephone box that marks the start of her working day, she stops, taking the last few sips of her coffee and smiling at a recognisable face walking towards her. ‘‘ and i thought i was the only one mad enough to arrive at work at the crack of dawn. what are you doing here so early? ’’

She’s way too familiar with insomnia to know when it’s futile to attempt to sleep. For hours, she has laid awake, but around four in the morning Erin gave up. Like a robot, she’s made breakfast, gotten dressed and walked Joan since then, and now it’s off to work. There’s plenty of work to be done, after all. She’s not the only one going in early, though, much too her surprise. “Oh!,” she says, taken aback by Angelina’s presence. Erin had been lost in thoughts, and has to adjust to be able to respond properly. “I woke up a few hours before my alarm, and found myself bored.” It’s close enough to the truth. “And you?”

under  different,  and  far  more  normal  circumstances,  there’s  nothing  the  healer  longed  for  more  than  their  reunions  .  being  in  france  for  so  long,  finding  the  opportunities  to  see  each  other  had  become  more  and  more  challenging  .  but  in  the  end,  the  friends  had  been  able  find  solutions  and  make  the  most  out  of  their  time  together  .  but  at  the  present,  she’s  returned  to  england  for  an  indefinite  period  of  time          —          something  that  should  be  delighting  for  their  friendship          —          but  circumstances  not  granting  it  to  be  so  .  so,  instead  of  laughing  and  reminiscing  as  the  old  friends  should  be,  they’re  both  stuck  to  their  chair,  glass  in  hand,  and  silent  .  they’re  both  just  trying  to  find  the  right  thing  to  say  .

          “          i’ve  missed  you  too  .           ”          she  sighs,  her  timbre  almost  breaking  once  she  finally  breaks  her  silence  .  victoire’s  never  been  much  of  a  crier,  but  times  have  changed  .  and  these  times  are  fucking  miserable  .  but  she  tries  to  lighten  the  dull  room,  turning  her  oncoming  sobs  into  some  sad  excuse  of  a  smile,  and  a  lighthearted  joke  .          “            is  today  the  day  you  finally  agree  to  escape  to  france  with  me  ?          ”          

Part of her is inclined to ask how they ended up like this, but she knows far too well. All that happened to them is so clearly hanging in the air between them, their grief palpable, the holes the Death Eaters forced in their families much too obvious. She wishes she could be there for Victoire, more, that she could soothe her sadness over Harry’s death, but she finds herself frozen, her own loss so all-encompassing. Maybe it’s enough that they’re together. She hopes so.

It was important, in times like these, to keep your friends close. Erin knew that, and yet a part of her wished to retreat into her bubble of work and sleep, as that was much easier. She tried to fight her instincts, though, which was why she’d invited Niamh over for dinner. She’d made a shit meal, in all truth, but made it right with two bowls of muggle ice cream, which they ate as they were sat on the sofa. “I’m sorry the spaghetti was so... well,” she said, chuckling a little. Erin hardly took time to cook, in all truth. No wonder she was so bad at it. She looked at Niamh as she brought a spoonful of ice cream to her mouth, deciding that it was good to be with friends. It made her feel somewhat lighter. “How’s everything back at Hogwarts, then?”

“There you go,” Erin says, handing Victoire a glass of wine. It’s been hard, to find time for the two of them to meet, between a war having started a week and a half ago, and Vic’s uncle and Erin’s grandmother being cruelly murdered. But they’re together now, reunited by something so horrible that Erin can barely start to think it. She wishes they could see each other in different circumstances. She wishes that this wasn’t what their lives were becoming. She wishes, wishes, wishes, but all she has is an ugly grief and a whole lot of resentment. She sits down on one of the two armchairs, across that of Vic’s, and took a long sip from her wineglass. She’s been drinking too much again, she knows, but she can’t help it.

For a while, they’re silent. She knows she should tell Vic, that she’s feeling bad again. But what use is there? It’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re both feeling fucking bad. “I’ve missed you,” is what she says in stead. That, too, is obvious, but it’s an easier truth to handle.

Killing Arabella Figg had been a simple matter. She’d been a valuable member of the last Order, had watched over Harry Potter and provided him sanctuary. It had seemed likely she might again provide a safe house for the Order. It had made sense to eliminate her. But Cassius had to admit, for him, the thought of sending Erin Figg into mourning had provided much of his own motivation. Personal revenge was not something he made a habit of; he considered it pointless and distracting. Even now, at the thought, he frowned. Troubling, that he might allow himself to beocme so distracted again. It might have been more sensible to strike directly at Erin, if he’d had to do anything, to elimate the real problem. But with her being so close to Astoria … that too was dangerous. 

He was entirely capable of engaging in conversation with someone while contemplating how benefical their death would or would not be, face impassive. Though Cassius had tried to smile at her, he found he couldn’t, too irritated, too aware that she’d taken the place that had belonged to him. “Oh, I wouldn’t trouble Astoria. She prefers you, after all.” HIs eyes narrowed, not missing the air of accusation behind apparently innocent words. “Of course, I read the Prophet. My family is very worried. My grandfather, you know, is on the loose and he has never forgiven my father or my grandmother for refusing to shelter him.” The story fell easily from his lips, considering how many times he’d repeated it. He added venom to it, “I’m sure you know precisely what it’s like to fear for family - even to grieve for them.” 

Of course, Erin lived in complete ignorance of who Cassius Rookwood was. She had her suspicions, plenty of them, but none of them came close to the truth. Not even when he mentioned grief. Not even when he was so overtly antagonistic ( something she was in return ). She thought him capable of cruelty, of violence, sure: but the idea that he was the one who had killed her grandmother, that this antagonism went further than snide comments and resentment? She didn’t know, and perhaps she was better off for it. If she did, after all, she’d most likely be dead, or fearing her life more than she did already at the very least.

Maybe ignorance was bliss, after all. 

She smiled at his words, very much capable of it. Satisfaction coursed through her. While the fact that Cassius Rookwood walked the halls of the Ministry did not sit well with her, her having taken his spot did. It felt right. “That she does,” she said, her tone a bit more smug than she intended it to be. Erin didn’t usually brag, but it was hard not to in front of the likes of Cassius. As he mentioned his grandfather, suspicions bubbled in her stomach. “I do hope your family remains safe in these trying times.” Erin didn’t think it a lie; she didn’t want Cassius to end up hurt because of his grandfather. She wanted to see him fired, brought down, shamed. Imprisoned, possibly, if anything could be proven. “It must be quite stressful, not knowing where he is.” And then there was that comment. Her lips pressed together, and her face remained steely. Her fingers shook harder, and she lowered the hand holding her cigarette to hide it. She refused to bare her grief. She refused. Cassius Rookwood did not deserve her weakness, her vulnerability. “Yes.” The word was spoken tersely. “Yes, I know.”

even  though  her  time  as  matron  of  the  leaky  cauldron  has  since  passed,  hannah  still  feels  a  certain  sense  of  duty  to  the  establishment.  any  spare  moment  is  often  spent  in  the  dimly  lit  pub,  surrounded  by  her  favorite  regulars.  her  visits  brought  her  a  shameless  sense  of  comfort  seldom  found  elsewhere,  and  certainly  not  in  the  halls  of  st.  mungos  these  days.  

the  woman  has  just  left  the  pub,  the  final  traces  of  a  smile  still  fizzling  out  on  her  lips  when  she’s  met  by  an  eager  dog  at  the  corner.  she  hardly  misses  a  beat,  though  eyes  widen  in  slight  surprise  as  a  hand  moves  to  pat  the  dog’s  head.  “oh  my,  aren’t  you  pretty  ?”  she  coos  with  renewed  enthusiasm  as  fingers  glide  along  the  dog’s  soft  fur.  gaze  travels  to  find  the  owner,  an  assuring  smile  ready  to  be  offered.  “she  probably  smells  pub  food,  i’ve  just  come  from  one.”  hannah  explains,  certain  the  scent  is  still  clinging  to  her  even  though  she’s  gotten  so  used  to  it  that  it’s  practically  unnoticeable  to  her  now.  “your  dog  is  beautiful …  and  so  friendly  ! ”

When she sees Hannah – who Erin knows mostly as the former matron of the Leaky, a bar she’s wasted quite a few nights at – respond so positively to Joan, she smiles widely. There’s something about people that Joan trusts and who trust Joan in response: Erin can’t help but trust such people. At little, at least, not more than that. These days especially, paranoia seems to be seeping through her blood like poison, so much harder to deal with than the anxiety she has been used to since what seems to be the first breath she ever took.  She trusts Hannah, though. Not with her life, but enough to not feel on edge.

“Oh! Thank you,” she says, rubbing Joan behind her ears. “She’s quite something, huh?” Her eyes drop down to the grey dog, a smile still tugging at her lips. It’s cliche, but Erin loves her dog. If Hannah doesn’t stop her, she could go on for eons. “She’s so excitable. I don’t really understand it when people say dogs are like their owners.” She Erin laughs softly despite herself, wondering if maybe she could be like Joan, should she be less high strung. 

It takes Pippa a moment to respond, the sounds around her are DEAFENING and it is hard to focus on a single thing between the sound of TRAFFIC and the VOICES in her head. She has to blink several times before the words sink in. ‘‘ yes, Pippa.’’ she repeats almost robotically. ‘‘ my - my aunt? where is she? ’’ the words feel JUMBLED, confusing on the tongue - still, Pippa reaches out and takes the girls hand, pulling herself up from the ground. ‘‘ where are we going? i don’t want to go to the ministry, really, i don’t want to go. ’’

It’s startling to see this, as an outsider. Panic and anxiety are familiar friends to Erin, but she hardly ever sees it in action like this. She forces all her own feelings down, though, focusing on the small blonde in front of her. “I’d say at the office, but that doesn’t matter,” she says, her voice soft. The part of her that’s a workaholic, willing to work herself to death for her job, her career, nags at her, but her empathy wins out. Astoria would forgive her, if she was late. Hell, she would thank her. “We don’t have to go there.” Slowly, she starts walking, steering the other with her. “Just somewhere where there’s less people, yeah? These crowds aren’t helping.”

“That’s probably true,” Kat nodded. She had sensed very quickly that the situation hadn’t been truly dangerous, otherwise she very well might have reacted very differently. The little girl nodded at Erin and then looked up to her. “Go ahead,” she tilted her head toward the dog and watched for a moment as Elina started to pet it. “If I’m not careful, she’s going to start asking for ten dogs before she’s eleven,” she chuckled. “How’ve you been, Erin?”

Erin watched the little girl with a half smile, knowing Joan would love the extra attention. She deserved it: she’d been working so much that her dog had been left rather lonely. “Ah, dogs are quite wonderful to grow up with,” she said. “Not the worst idea? Though I’d stop at three if I were you.” A smile. Small talk was easy, despite it all. “Oh, you know.” Erin paused for a tense moment. “Work has been keeping me busy. I’m glad to have Joan as an excuse to get out of the door every now and then. And you?”

“Mm, yes there is,” Fleur nodded. There was all too much going on, and there were days she wished things were as simple as they were when she was in school. “That’s right. I’m so sorry, but I don’t know your name.” She had seen the woman countless times but (especially as she got older) she found it harder to keep track of new names.

Erin gave a polite smile, but part of her was rather disappointed. She wished to be known. Her time would come, though. “Erin Figg,” she said, extending her hand. And then, to offer an explanation as to why she knew the other. “I, er – Harry was a family friend. That’s how I recognised you.” Her face was darkened, then, and she looked apologetic. She had no interest in bringing up a sore spot for the other, but also did not want to come across as suspicious.

“There are many things I wish to say -- is there a limit to this?” Her voice sounds somewhat light, but she presses her lips together thinly. “A vague question, if you ask me. But if I had to pick one thing, which I suppose was your intent, no? I would tell her about all she’s meant to me, how I love her.” She falls quiet. “That’s a cliche answer, but that’s all there is. Luckily for her and me both, I’ve told her that plenty of times before.”

“While I don’t support murder, I’ll gladly end Cassius in this scenario,” Erin says easily. “The other two are harder, and I would hate to betray either of them.” A pause. “Approaching this ... pragmatically, which has nothing to do with personal choices mind you, I’d pick Davina to be on my zombie apocalypse team. A healer would be handy. So that leaves Anabella to betray, sorry babes. If you forgive me in this scenario, I’ll try and make it right.”

“Being part of an underground organisation is not the only way to fight injustice, you know,” she says sharply. “I think I’m of more use here, at the Ministry. Working my way up to a place at the Wizengamot, where I’ll be able to make sustainable change.” And it’s true, what she says but that’s not the only reason: “And I’m scared. Look at what they did to my grandmother. To Kingsley, Harry, the little Bardon girl ... I’m a muggleborn climbing the ranks of the Ministry, baring the name of a former Order member. I’m not a fool: I know I’m in danger.” She lets out a breath of air. “Fighting for the Order will only increase that. I am not in the business of becoming a martyr. I have no use when I’m dead. I’ll leave the heroics for those with guts.”

“I don’t know,” Erin says. It’s a boring answer, but it’s the truth. “I don’t think there’s such a thing as murder without consequence, for one. Even if there’s no legal ramifications - which there often should be in the case of such a crime, if you ask me - you have to live with that. I don’t know if I could.” Her voice is strained, yet calm. It reveals that she has thought about this before. “I suppose it depends on who, what my chances are. If I can lock them away to rot, the legal way ... then I’d prefer that, but we all know that such systems are faulty, especially these days. It would be more satisfactory, to me, to have them tried and found guilty in front of the Wizengamot, whoever they are.” She’s quiet for a moment. 

“But then I think about what they did to her.” She loses her calmness, then. “And I feel like I could kill them.” 

Literature has always been a rather important thing for the Figg family. Books were what allowed Arabella to connect to the muggle world, initially, and Erin’s father, Carlos, ran a muggle bookstore in the centre of Glasgow. Erin was raised reading a lot, and now finds herself not having the time to sit down with a proper book. Carlos used to read to her a fair bit, and was the best at telling stories, especially the one he thought up himself. Roald Dahl was a staple of the Figg household. Erin heard the more magical fairytales from her grandma Honora’s mouth, and liked those too, but muggle literature had a large preference.  

Where Erin feels so deeply connected to her father’s side of the family, there remains a certain distance with her mother’s side. This has mostly to do with the fact that they’re a bit stand off-ish, and did not initially approve of Marisol’s marriage to Carlos (as he was not religious), but also with the fact that they don’t know about the wizarding world. To hide such a world does create a rift, eventually. Erin has a cousin that she gets along with quite well on that side of the family, who is a close friend still.