a greek tragedy ,

𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽  :  hogsmeade village  ! 𝙵𝙴𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶  :  @graciieux​!

so, it wasn’t his best made plan. he could hardly be blamed for that. mattie had provided the opportunity in the first place by dragging him along to the tree lighting ceremony by side apparition and then wandering off into the crowd to find their friends, leaving him alone to wander the familiar village under unfamiliar circumstances. if they’d stuck by his side - as promised, he might add - then they’d have stumbled upon gracie in a kind of … neutral territory, and henry wouldn’t have spared even a thought to how he might strike up meaningful conversation or, perhaps, how to ask whether that was something she might be interested in at all at some point in the future. mattie’s friends were generally off limits. he respected that. but when mattie was nowhere to be seen, and gracie’s sibling - he knew they were some sort of bird, maybe a lark, or a robin - having bounded off a while before and never returned, he sort of figured that keeping grace company was an acceptable thing to do, and… well, whatever came of that was fine. right ?

it took him a few minutes to work himself up for it, but, finally… “grace. hi,” he smiles, all white teeth and dimples, his ungloved and chilly hands glued to the insides of his pockets. wix milled all around them, waiting in the queue for cocoa or standing around for the christmas tree lights, but ( as per usual, at least since the gala ), his attention was focused on her, from bobble hat to cheeks rosy from the cold. “are you a willing participant, or… did you get dragged out here as well ?” 

could grace be blamed for the warm feeling in her chest when her best friends brother appears at her side ? could she be forgiven ? what a stark contrast that sensation is against the chill of december - she ALMOST forgets about it. one thing called girl code, she guesses, would say that feeling is an unforgivable sin and normally she does quite well to honor it. but the lights on the tree and ribboned garland lining the shops along the street really set an idyllic scene and maybe she has not quite forgotten the gala and maybe he’s in front of her and she’s simply charmed by him saying two simple words - “henry.” she’s a woman of fewer words, apparently. her grin is large and makes her eyes do that thing where they crinkle at the corners just a bit - something so rarely seen on her features. “you mean to tell me you don’t freeze for fun ? that’s just a pleasure you confine to work ?” good recovery for her, maybe. “i’m here with my family - or i WAS before i lost them to the crowds. though luckily for me it seems . . . you’re in the same boat ? maybe ?”

Damien Graves fucking hates the winter. Which is odd, since he does love the holidays ( he’ll never admit it despite anyone’s best attempt. ) He slipped on ice one too many times for his patience ( so, one time ) and now he has a vendetta against the whole season. The poor man is bundled up in a comically thick amount of scarfs and layers underneath his coat. 

“This country’s weather is fucking ridiculous.” He mutters to nobody in particular, not even really paying attention as he lights up a cigarette. It’s a recent development, one he isn’t thrilled with. “All the spells in the world and we can’t think of one that makes heat?”

“i mean . . . one could argue that incendio is a spell that makes heat. a risky one, but one nonetheless. there’s also the charm for hot air.” grace means well, but she’s very AWARE that it could also seem like she’s being a know it all. “but if you’re not feeling those, we ARE at a festival that sells hot cocoa and warm butterbeer at nearly every corner.” 

( 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 ) —   diagon alley ( 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 ) —   open

daisy held a foam to go cup in her hands, leeching away as much heat from the thin to-go cup. “i don’t think hot chocolate is supposed to taste like this.” technically speaking, it was a peppermint hot chocolate with a shot of espresso. not that it tasted like that. it was watery and had just a hint of chocolate with an overwhelming peppermint flavor. it was enough to make her mouth burn just a bit. “i really wouldn’t recommend it. twelve dollars isn’t worth it.”

“did you say twelve dollars?” grace looks so the hot chocolate stand in question, and the way that the sign advertising their offerings has the prices in the SMALLEST font imaginable. “y’know, it’s hard sometimes to get into the holiday spirit when everything is such a gimmick. a cup of cheer should be cheap if it’s not going to be good. maybe you could ask for some marshmellows. . . to mask the taste ?”

location: the atrium of the ministry  participants: theodore budak & gracie moody ( @graciieux )

“hold the lift,” theodore called out, his voice almost at a shout in order to be heard above the noise of the atrium. normally he would’ve waited for the next one to come along, but a combination of general impatience and wanting to avoid someone meant waiting really wasn’t an option. fortunately he was able to catch the nearest lift, though he remained unsure of whether calling out had anything to do with it. regardless, he couldn’t help but smile as the doors closed behind him. and while normally, his smile would’ve quickly disappeared, the surprise of seeing gracie, meant it stayed on his face. “it’s been a while moody.”

it’s funny how grief and time makes people question things. if you asked grace nearly a decade ago if theo budak was her friend, she would have answered ‘yes’ without hesitation. but that’s the thing - if life was a window, for her things stopped shining through it quite the same with vincent’s passing. she still thinks of him as a friend ( let that be noted ), she has a tendency to question the will power of her friendships more, now. still, she hears theo’s voice before she sees his face and she springs to action, arm jutting out to stop the elevator door from closing. “i thought that was you,” she grins, hugging her countless folders to her chest. she’s been assigned desk duty more often, it seems. “we ought to get coffee sometime, yeah? do a proper catch up that’s not in passing. whenever you have time, that is. i’m sure you’re busy.”

𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃  :  oh no, i knew it. you hate me now. 𝚁𝙴𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝚈  :  @graciieux  /  grace moody  ! 𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽  :  the shrieking shack, hogsmeade  !

there’s no telling how this particular conversation would’ve gone if hande had been given the blessing of a similar blood alcohol level. she’s happy to delude herself with the idea that it may have been easier, drunk girl to drunk girl, but the truth is that her sobriety is a kind of high ground that she’s unaware to having, and definitely an upside. the conversations of late have had a tendency to devolve too quickly into petty insults and literal attacks, but the uneven footing they have found themselves unexpectedly having - paths crossing in hande’s search for the shrieking shack bathroom, of all ways - affords hande more patience than ever with her once best friend, a flash of concern clouding her own features as the others face falls. “grace…” and here she grabs a hold of her elbow, pulling her closer to the wall and away from the costumed figures bustling by with no thought to the scene unfolding between the two, quick to let go but slow to take the protective hovering of her hand at gracie’s side away. she wants to say ‘you called me a whore’ and ignore the fact she’d said worse in that pursuit of having the very last WORD, but she holds her tongue, grapples with the rest she could - would, if they were anywhere else - bring up, then settles for a simple, “you’ve had too much to drink. nobody hates you.” 

wren went home and maybe the wise decision for gracie would have been to follow suit. but thats the thing - she’s never chosen the wise decision, and with her fair share of alcohol running through her she won’t be starting anytime soon. accidental locking of eyes in a bathroom mirror was all the blonde needed to melt into something downright PITIFUL. you never get over your first heartbreak, they say, and for grace she’s never escaped the habit of rubbing SALT in an unhealed wound. she just misses her friend, and she’s SURE in another world they are laughing together, tucked into a corner of the shrieking shack and discussing every scene playing out in front of them, but not this one. “don’t. don’t grace me. you do. everyone does.” she affirms, with all the confidence of a compromised mind. “it’s been. it’s been what ? eight years ? are we ever going to get better ?” what a loaded question. 

𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽  :  the ministry of magic ( atrium level ), london  ! 𝙵𝙴𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶  :  @graciieux​  !

“so, i don’t really know my champagnes-” he admits, sheepishly, doing his level best to keep the four flutes ( two to each hand ) that he has chosen to take back to their table in one trip entirely steady. he’s amazed that he’s made it back at all given just how many times the soles of his new shoes scuffed along the marble floor of the atrium and threatened to trip him, and he’s weirdly chuffed about how little of the various drinks he’s left behind him. a few drops here & there surely won’t hurt anybody ( he hopes, at least, and he’s choosing not to glance behind him ), and he has four almost completely full glasses to set down before gracie, proudly. “i didn’t know which you’d rather. there’s dom pérignon, moët and chandon, mercier-” he taps each glass as he parrots back the unfamiliar names, eyebrows knitting together as he realises he’s gone wrong, “or maybe… this one is mercier, and that one is the ruinart… ? i’m actually-… not so sure anymore. shit. i’m sorry, grace.” 

sheepish expression meets two blue eyes the size of saucers - grace is not sure whether she is more impressed with henry’s ability to carry four champagne glasses ( they’d have shattered on the floor had roles been reversed, knowing her luck ) or how he seemingly gets all of the champagne names correct. they both are a bit out of place in their own ways, which perhaps will make her next confession easier to say, but she interrupts him first with a shaking head and a hand gently placed on his arm. “henry, it’s fine.” and really, it is. “i’m sure half the guests tonight would HATE to hear it, but i’m positive i won’t be able to taste the differences. i think any time i’ve had champagne outside of . . these things it’s been. . . the VALUE variety.”

Gracie Moody was a name and face Greg hadn’t come across in a while. It’s been years since they’ve last spoke–since Vincent’s funeral, the reception a sad little gathering which made it nearly impossible not to speak to each other. Otto had mentioned her little blind Valentines Day date with the other girl, but other than that, Greg wasn’t sure he’d ever see Gracie again. He rolls his eyes, “Is the sky not blue?” If it were eight years earlier, perhaps Greg wouldn’t have even thought about using that knowledge to his advantage, but since then, he has certainly learned a thing or two. “It’ll always be in favor of the house. D’ya know how to count cards?” He doubts it, “Now that’s something we could use to our advantage.” 

“i’m no gambler, goyle. i don’t know these things.” her words are accompanied with a gentle push on his arm that can only be interpreted as playful before she shakes her head, gaze shifting back to the game playing out before them and the disgruntled patrons that keep losing. thank merlin for the drink in her hands that has quelled any nerves she WOULD have - she knows all too well the dance of not KNOWING how to navigate a conversation with an old schoolmate after most actively avoided her after vincents passing. luckily, however, she doesn’t have to do that dance with greg, it seems. “i don’t - but i’m told i’m a quick learner.”

( 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 ) — belby manor ( 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 ) — casino night ( 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 ) —  closed ( 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 ) — @graciieux​

“miss moody.” for once, dionisia made no attempt to make her tone warm. she stood close enough to gracie that she could hear her but no closer. arms crossed and eyes narrowed, she watched her. the only thing that kept her from calling for security and asking for gracie to be removed was the lack of any real cause other than the disdain she felt for her since the memorial. there was no secret made of dionisia’s affection for hande, and no attempt to even hide it. hande would, after all, inherit the arboretum and orangery and a decent chunk of the land. “i trust you won’t be causing any trouble tonight?”

it is evident on grace’s features she’s not expecting a call back to the memorial from the HOST of the event - she blinks once. twice, before lips form into a grin that is meant to seem polite. “oh. yeah ! my dad made sure to remind me to take my meds . . . funny how grief can make someone so forgetful.” besides . . . it seems trouble is amuck without grace making any rash decisions. “you don’t need to worry about me.”

LOCATION: casino night / belby estate! STATUS: open @startertms​

“Be careful. The die is loaded,” Greg mutters, a drunken and satisfied smirk on his lips as he leans over the persons shoulder, observing the craps table. He’s been watching the table for some time now, having made a few of his own bets before picking up on the way the dice landed and pulling out the moment he realized he was being cheated ( an art he was quite familiar with and would not be taken advantage of ). Perhaps he should have kept it a secret, but the booze loosens his lips and with the knowledge he does have regarding gambling, he’s eager to share this tidbit of information. “You can tell by the way they land. See? Those sides are favored.”  

a loaded die ? this is an added confusion for a mind that is learning ; grace is not one for games of luck ( if you asked her she has none ), but she attempts to humor them in the name of charity. that is, until greg intervenes. “uh-” she struggles to conjure up anything articulate, even if just for a second. can she be BLAMED ? likely not. not when speaking to someone who was once very familiar, even if just tangentially. “that’s a bit fucked, isn’t it ? but. . . with that knowledge, could you not use it to your advantage ?”

it registers with hande, however dimly, that neither of them really has a leg to stand on, here, even if it feels as if they do. her problem is with a boy long dead, still seen a villain, still imagined the sole reason their friendship crumbled so completely. gracie’s is with her and her inaction, something that her stomach knots just thinking about but that she hates to claim ; it’s easier to blame it all on vincent because he isn’t here, he can’t defend himself, he probably wouldn’t even try, even if he could. it’s easier to boil it down to ‘him or me’ when it was never really that simple and the close relationship they had formed as two fresh faced first years had already started suffering weeks before that fateful day. they’d carried the weight of carrow rule and their respective secrets & insecurities like atlas and the heavens, but they were only teenage girls. neither of them actually stood a chance against something like that, and hande’s spent eight years trying to grapple and come to terms with that - she might’ve thought she succeeded if the full force of all these tumultuous feelings weren’t hitting her for the first time in a long time, right now, making the blood rush in her ears and her cheeks embarrassingly damp. knowing that neither of them can ever really be right can’t help, at this point. “i never said i was a good person, but you are certainly not the victim, gracie - you knew all along what kind of person vincent was, you just didn’t care enough to let him go.” gracie pushes and hande refuses to push BACK, not because she recognises it’s for the best but because she knows how irrational it makes gracie look and how infuriating that is, in equal measure. it’s not the high road when the decision is made out of pure spite. “no, it isn’t,” she’s SHRILL, by now, and the argument has devolved past sense or reason ; it’s not about admitting anything, anymore, but being the one to cut deepest. “it’s too late. you will always be the person who chose a death eater over everyone else that mattered. after everything he did- everything they did, to my family, to your mum…- how do you live with that?”

you are certainly not the victim, gracie. there is no PRIDE in claiming victim - it isn’t a crown one happily wears and grace has never claimed to be one, either, but she can’t help the way she feels she IS being wronged ( they both are, but there is a failure to see that ). there is no string of words grace could conjure up to make hande understand ( or anyone, it seems ), but it wouldn’t matter - she doesn’t seem that she wants to. “so that i could have been on the receiving end of his crucio? would you have preferred that ? i have SO many regrets over how things played out and right up there is how i regret wasting so much time on you.” there is very little room for her own rebuttal when she’s confronted with thoughts she’s already had of herself, but she TRIES, even with how irrational the entirety of the interaction is. if near indifference was meant to infuriate then that is exactly where the arrow has landed - blue eyes search for a bigger reaction that doesn’t come and grace hates it. this would have been the perfect time to walk away and accept some sort of defeat. an unsteady mind continues to choose fight over flight, however ; a decision that is SOLIDIFIED when the other reaches her final point and her words sting. in what feels like a split second the full force of grace’s open palm meets hande’s cheek - it doesn’t give the feeling of relief that she hoped it would. this prompts tears, finally, but of frustration. “fuck you, hande.”