DEVASTATION.

“I am afraid I am not familiar with any poetic work that begins with ‘Hey, baby, all alone?’ So you will have to excuse my lack of comprehension. I had believed that you were reading Machiavelli and I do not recall him exploring such a concept. I instead remember his commentary of effective truth being more important than the abstract ideal.” And Brent knew this to be true: any power that blood supremacists grabbed onto limited them. Power was in constant flux and negotiation. Power was pervasive. Power produced reality, and the realities of the Sacred Twenty Eight were constraining, the lines drawn and the door sealed, barring entrance to any of those that they considered unworthy. Blood supremacy existed only in the abstract. Their bloodlines would not remain pure forever, the ideal an impossible one. The Sacred Twenty Eight was already fragmented. Soon, they would lead to their own destruction. The last war should have taught them that. The Blacks and the Gaunts were instinct Sacred Twenty Eight families, branches that were cut from the stem by their own greedy hands. 

“I am not patronizing you. On the contrary, I did just mention that I had assumed such a position was beneath you, did I not?” Brent meets Evadne’s tightly clipped words with his own that were edged smoothly. “I know that you Ravenclaws are quite fond of your riddles, rightfully so, but what sights in particular are you referring to? We have, each of us, seen a great deal.” Brent was a purveyor of truth and when presented with truth, he did not deny it. He saw none being presented. “You speak of alliances - - is it fair to conclude that your purpose here relates to them?”

“No, mon coeur --- poetic resonance of the dead,” she corrects, dark eyes flashing amusedly. Evadne had forgotten him, admittedly; his nuances and contradictory lack of dimension, the blunt edge of his humour. Oh, what a dull blade his mind made, for so much as he knew. She pitied him. What was a diamond mind without wit? Wasted. “Come now, I thought you knew better than to take a thing at face value, darling. Where is your savage brilliance when I need it?” At once, she loosens her hold on the book --- slipping, easing from her grasp until it is plummeting towards the ground. Would he suffer the same? A glorious, incandescent star --- untouchable, golden seraph, a god in his own right, made to fall. All in the interest of decency? Morality? She laughs, a silken note elicited at the vacuous manner with which he regarded her, the argument belying his pacifism. 

“A muggle’s opinion is nothing to me, amour. But one must keep up appearances, mustn’t they?” Indeed, her position demanded contradiction from her, but he should’ve known better than to consider her surface value --- dawn wearing revolution, valiance with all its red cloaks and white knights. She was made of just the opposite; cataclysm, prudence. Machiavelli lay in the dust behind them, but still he resided at the forefront of their conversation --- a soft accusation of disloyalty, dark-tainted executioner hand-in-hand with her heretic. “It’s nothing to do with riddles, Brent. Your loyalties, mine --- where do they lie?” She pats his arm reassuringly, as though she will be obliging; as though she will be merciful, clement. She will not. Two wars lost may have taught their great families resignation, but never her. Evadne will bleed and make bleed for betrayal --- of the cause, of blood. She would remember. She would live.

She would conquer.

Such devotion, unbridled and feral in its conviction, hung like a cowl on her shoulders. Miles didn’t have to recall her name to know her for what she was. This is the path their forefathers set on, and here they were gladly taking the mantle. Dogs striving for dominance. Miles should be one in the games, just as eager to claw down and sing praises for their purity. But he was just a husk. A parrot repeating a greater someone’s words.

Her touch disgusted him. Dried ice against warm skin. It burned, not because of its impropriety nor the drip of condescension that gathered at her feet, but because he knew her for an entity his father wanted him to emulate. A true pureblood heir, and all the natural airs that came with it. With a steady hand that belied his weakened state, he gripped her wrist, applied enough pressure to burrow in between the ulnar styloid and triquetral and pushed it away.

“A common understanding perhaps, but our views surely diverge on the means to reach it,” face contorted in defiance as he looked down at the book she cradled. “Tell me… do you aspire to be the ‘prince’ when the dust settles?” Mockery laced his tone. Miles felt cold and it added to the ache in his body, the child in him that refused to die fussing for his removal.

What was an inglorious regime without its crusaders? An ideal without devout solidarity? Of course she defended their purity, the very foundation of their society. She bit and clawed and tore as despairingly as any of them, assuredly. But --- wasn’t that the crack to be exploited in every argument? But, Evadne also possessed a sharpness of mind which set her apart from the fanatics, all at once lethal and impressive. Yes, she had always possessed an enormous capacity for reason, beneath the ambition. Crime and Punishment. War and Peace. She would not follow her peers blindly to the gates of Purgatory, but to vindicate their blood was inarguable, inescapable. What were they without blood?

Nothing, she’s convinced, eyebrows raising in sync with the movement of the boy’s hand against her. She would not be dominated, not by this pathetic creature; lifting her wrist from reach before he’s sunk his claws in. “Don’t,” she warns, and it is the only cautioning syllable she will spare on him. A word which disappears within an instant, replaced by scarlet mouth curling upward. “You presume to understand the extent of my means? Do indulge me with your methods for divining this information,” she retorts, remaining unimpressed.

Wounded, he spited her --- coiled himself low, striking at every given opportunity. That was his mistake. “The prince?” What was a prince to a king? Kings, queens --- legends. Those were the names which were written in history books and alluded to by scholars. Of course, Evadne would never be a legend. But she had the ability to make them. “This was never about crowns, chéri.”

Greengrass, Parkinson, Selwyn, Lestrange. Sacred Twenty Eight names, names that were ingrained in him from birth. Brent’s ancestor, Cantankerous Nott, had been the one to take it upon himself to create the pureblood legion to begin with, giving a title and prestige to a select group of wixen who have used that distinction for generations in order to oppress others and gain power, money, and influence. An ideology and culture was spurred from the roots of such supremacy, continually watered and given new life with each attempt like this one, the rumbles of a repetitive war echoing in his ears. It was a beckoning that Brent turned away from, a call that he refused to answer based on his own principles. “Is that your way of expressing an unexpected spirituality or being ominous?” The pet names were not appreciated. Nor was the assumption that Brent had any desire to go anywhere with Evadne. They may be cut from the same cloth, but Brent’s strands had unraveled after years of carefully unknotting the noose around his neck to give him space to breathe, to morph into his own person. He acquiesced her request begrudgingly, if only because the mention of his father was still enough to spark his attention. As much as he would like for it not to, the resurgence of violence left him a little more on edge, weary of his father’s next steps. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Evadne. “It would best for you not to assume that our previous interactions offers you insight into my perspectives. Nor does it grant you familiarity. But I do admit that I find it curious that Richard is choosing to send his messages through proxy. I would have assumed your position was one higher than that of a messenger owl, yet we did just cover the dangers of presuming anything, particularly in this climate.”

If any were ever faithful, it should have been him. Their antiquity rested languidly upon his name, the ancestry behind him — he should have been proud of that fact, proud as any of them were. Instead, he shunned it like an ungrateful child; never mind that they were of the same age, for she had realized the great, inglorious purpose, and he had not. Just standing besides him, she feels impatience rise fast and hot in her chest, and taking his arm, squints out into the descending darkness. The air has grown cold, no longer carrying the softness of midsummer nights and sun-kissed evenings. The season of bloom has come to an end: this day marks the beginning of decay. “Don’t you have any appreciation for poetic resonance, darling?” Her lips curl upwards into an amused line, and she clicks her tongue at him; chiding. “Perhaps not.” 

“I’m beyond over-reaction, Brent. I wouldn’t be here based on assumption — you know that,” she pauses, dash lashes fanning out as blinks luxuriously beneath him. “But I cannot deny what I have seen with my own eyes, and neither can you.” They both teeter uncertainly over hostility, but for now, grasp weakly upon diplomacy. In this, they have achieved more than any csars or prime ministers, an international disposal of sultans and presidents. "Oh,” she scoffs. “Don’t condescend to me, Nott.” What had been Brent takes on a colder tone; the flip of a switch, the turn of a coin on its edge, until it balances precariously upon the precipice. Nott. They liked to maintain a sense of impersonal frost, didn’t they? 

the wizengamot’s session had run long today—-tedious arguments about taxes, budget allocations, and territorial disputes—the squabbles clearly a front for the underlying tension plaguing their society as of late, and isaiah was expected to help steer the mostly-entitled body to some sort of consensus. in the end, they’d adjourned until tomorrow with no true agreement, and all isaiah had to show for it was a migraine currently making the area between his eyes throb as he waited in line at the tea cart right inside the ministry entrance. the wizengamot and the dmle had their own coffee station, but isaiah found it lacking, so here he was. he stepped forward, the person behind him overstepping and bumping into him. “the line doesn’t move that quickly, i’m afraid.” he said evenly, always evenly. 

Ah, where to find her but in a place of divine, opulent revere? Built precariously upon the spine of tradition and glory, though it would deny them. Oh, but they could not deny history, for here she stands in all her casual vainglory; a dip in her satin gown, the sharp slope of her shoulders exposed, smooth length of her leg flashing with every step. Is that not the very picture of devastation? Mercy crushed beneath her jaw, throat exposed like the pale underbelly of a wolf. She hadn’t meant to bump into him — pushed, herself, by an ignorant youth. It’s inconsequential, though. Evadne glares viciously at her offender, but nevertheless, she always finds conquest; even in the accidental. Steadying herself from the misstep easily, smoothly, Evadne’s shoulders give a great thaw at a familiar face. “Isaiah,” a revelation, unexpected but welcomed with a slow, sharp smile. Her dark eyes flicker, unimpressed, over the pitiful congregation. “What are you doing, waiting in a line?” An implication, clearly. He could take to the front, if he only wished it. The rest of them were insignificant, a mere blimp in the grand scheme. But him? Travers, he had the innate luxury of greatness, as any of them; the sacred.

It’s not quite late, but the sky is dark enough through his office window for Brent to be cognizant of the fact that his typical working hours have expired. He throws Barbara a text that he is on his way home before he packs up his briefcase and heads out of the Ministry building. The air is stifling these days, the tension continuing to mount amidst the political turmoil. Brent casts his sights elsewhere, focusing on his own work and not treading an all too risky line. He is too calculating of a man to have his focus broken so easily over the squabbles of others. He does not care for any that attempt to bar his path, and the woman that was physically doing so was met with a leveled gaze. Evadne Lestrange, a familiar face dating back to his youth. Back when he was forced to obey the whims and traditions of others. His eyes glance over the book title. “As alone as you appear to be, Lestrange,” he greeted plainly, “Do you make it a habit of reading against poorly lit walls at night? Or is the display purposeful, considering the contents of your choice.” He nodded toward the book, all too familiar with the work and the contents that outlined how one could acquire and maintain political power. 

Prewett, Potter, Nott — such great names, such innate potential. Wasted. And for what? Charity? Goodwill? It made her laugh, their senses of grandeur. Who would abandon antiquity to the abyss but a fool, deluded in his justice? But to even turn face is to scorn ancestry, and Evadne sees Brent at the precipice of devastation; of himself, of legacy. Call it what you will, Lestrange come before Nott, but the intention of a viperess demands ambiguity, a scarlet element of surprise. “Are we ever truly alone, cheri?” She smiles, red lips painted for exactly this — for war, raised in a false show of goodwill. "Walk with me,” and it should be a request, but she’s already outstretching her hand for his arm by the time she’s finished saying it. It should be a request, but coming from her, it is a demand. Propriety demands the both of them, doesn’t it? Evadne doesn’t care about propriety, but she does care about pride, the potential of a name for greatness — brilliant, crimson. “Everything is purposeful, Brent. As in your passivity, your alliances.” The soft cadence of her voice is a rope, wrapped around a callow neck — tugging hard. Loyalty was to be expected, but he had none of it, not to them; unholy brigade, seraphim at the brink of their unholy, glorious revolution. “Your father had me send his regards.”

Eyes cast to ground, body and will strained against a battle to show no weakness. The expanse of his body registered nothing but pain, raw and bruised and so present. He almost wanted to laugh, but the dent in his ribs stole away his breath. 

Unaware until she was standing before him, her voice stark and loud against sensitive ears, did Miles look up. Too quick. He almost flinched, almost. His visage showed no emotion. But signs gave away under the tenseness in his shoulders, the swallow that he struggled to gulp down. He licked devil’s lips and opened his mouth… a pause too long. Closed it. 

His head throbbed, obstinate against any distractions. And here she was. Proving just that.

He tried again. “I can say the same about you, madam.”

Vision ghosted across her figure, approving, before they landed on the cover of a tome she held. That smile returned again. “Do you have ambitions on usurping the current power?” 

He swiveled his head around, against the protestation of his body, seeing no one but an empty corner of the Ministry. “If so, this is the best place to start,” whether he was being genuine or forthright, the truth hid in the air around them, as suffocating as the dark walls that loomed above their heads.

Great expectation, the propensity for crimson glory — they wear it in the stitching of their clothing, heavy in their gilt seams. In expectation, what Dickens wrote of was the sacrilegious, never the sacred. A Greengrass is always this, are they not? At the very least, a Lestrange is.

Dynasty and devastation, rule and ruin.

“Oh?” It’s a disbelieving utterance, her eyes narrowing into dark-lashed crescents. If not a living gaze at her back, surely there laid one of those feeble, ghostly spectres of the dead. Haunted by legacy, blessed with glorious, absolute ancestry. Did he not suffer the same? But to be of the exquisite elite was never truly to suffer, except in the impurity of others.

“Haven’t we progressed beyond assumption? Here, I thought we had a common understanding,” she lilts, and without any semblance of permission, raises her hand delicately against his cheek. It’s cold, it stings; silver faucets and black seas, crystal decanters and marble pillars. “Beauty, but with none of its sharpness.” Her words, soft but unkind. She disapproves, this much is obvious, but his absolution lay in his veins, thick with divine purity.  

“Subtlety, darling.”

Under tongue, she can taste a devastation to come — all roaring seas and grand expositions of green light, smoke rising; but she’s not quite sure yet if it is herself or the air. Only time will tell, she’s convinced. It always does. In the meantime, she’s leant casually against marble column: expectant, glittering with bad intention. There’s a copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince lodged between her fingers, but she’s beyond pretense; she has read it a thousand times, her eyes roam elsewhere. Instead, her gaze is fixated upon an approaching figure ascending the steps towards her, and feigning spontaneity, she makes a calculated step right into their path; lips cradling a sardonic comma, slant shoulders at once raised and straightening. “Hey, baby,” she says in greeting, but whether it is mocking or genuine remains indecisive. “All alone?”