μαγεία .

                                    ♞  𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐒  ♞

He found himself terribly out of place at St. Mungo’s; he’d never been to see a Healer, and never had intended to. But one of the youngest in his pack had come down with a cold that had not been fixable through rest, careful watching, and soup smuggled from the nearest town, and so he found himself here, perched on a too-small chair in a too-crowded waiting room, with a list of medications he’d researched himself in the muggle library. There was a lot to be said about Fenrir Greyback, and a lot that stemmed from a reputation of horror, of violence, of lawlessness. But he loved his pack like his own children; they were the only family he had ever known, and the only family he cared to ever have. 

And he would take care of them -- even if it meant braving a hospital with barely any money to his name, a list of symptoms he could not fix himself, and a severe aversion to crowds. He’d heard good enough things about the Healers at St. Mungo’s, and had opted to come here, rather than relying on the dubious help of his Death Eater allies. They were all well and good -- but his pack, especially the youngest ( a girl named Rosie, whose nose was as red as her name ) deserved the best. 

And so he sat, and waited, and made expectant eye contact with every Healer who passed, silently and nervously judging them as they went. After a long while waiting, he rose and approached the nearest, a kind-faced woman, and tapped her on the shoulder. 

“‘Scuse me,” he cleared his throat, attempting politeness, “Been waiting a while. Got a sick kid at home -- any chance I can speak to someone soon?” 

He’d recognize Remus’s friend anywhere. Fenrir couldn’t be bothered to remember the boy’s name, but his face was forever etched into his memory. It was lucky that he’d thought to venture into neutral territory today, leaving the pack behind to sleep off a particularly tiring hunt. It was lucky that he’d plucked up the resolve to venture into a more populated area and search for a means of sustainable income that did not ask too many questions. It was lucky -- or perhaps it was fate. Fenrir had not stopped thinking of Remus Lupin since they’d first met, and it was just as delicious that he’d come across his dear friend. 

His dear friend -- and a child. A toddler, with tousled black hair and blazing emeralds for eyes. Oh, this would be fun. 

Fenrir matched pace with the Potter boy as they were bustled along during the busy rush-hour street. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced,” he began, “We’ve a mututal friend,”; did James Potter know him by sight alone? Had Remus spoken enough of him that the thrilling joke would be up as soon as it began? No matter; he did love to see humans squirm. “Cute kid you’ve got there,” he mused, lips twitching at the corners, “Looks like his father.”

The full moon was far enough away that the even the youngest of the pack could venture into the public eye without fear of losing control; however, calm waters did not suit them all, Fenrir included, and so they found themselves itching for action, for release, for something to allow them ample time outside the cabin which Fenrir had procured for their safety. They’d had no qualms with the dubious way in which he had acquired their safe haven, and the other Death Eaters -- with whom he fraternized on a limited basis -- had neither approved nor disapproved of the fires he’d lit in the middle of the woods to dispose of the bodies the youngest had not found worthy of consumption. It was gruesome work, but he could hardly afford to be picky in feeding his ever-growing pack. 

But he knew that a certain level of choosiness was wise when it came to their activities outside the homestead -- which is why he first thought of Bellatrix, and of her proclivity for activities that even the moodiest of his teenage wolves could agree upon. The youngest had woken early, roused with excitement at the promise of seeing Bellatrix -- “Bella, Bella, Bella!” -- and Fenrir was of no mind to deny them an early, and unannounced, arrival at the Lestrange manor. He could only hope that Rodolphus was not around. He’d never liked the man. 

While his pack ran about like wild children in the yard, Fenrir ascended the front steps and gave the grand doors of Lestrange Manor a firm knock. As he’d arrived unannounced, he could only hope that Bellatrix would not turn them away. If she did, the utter excitement of the young pack would surely be crushed -- and then where would he be?

                            ♚          ALASTOR MOODY         ♚

she’s alive. to him, it’s all that mattered, all that would ever matter. alone in their world they’d build with such haphazard hands. to deceit the people around them so recklessly, to feel the cruel sting of loss when they’d spent far too many days, weeks, without one another. if he could take it all back, for a moment of selfishness, he believes he would. not alice, never alice. but the circumstances that had torn them apart time and time again. he’d whisk her away here sooner rather than later. but where would that leave them? they’d be no better off, countless missing, countless dead. but still, they’d remained. 

she speaks and it sounds like a hymn, calming and ever present in his mind. calloused palm runs through tresses as his sigh escapes him, relief washing over like a wave as she wraps familiar self around him. their embrace is never enough, and for that he only has himself to blame. “not your fault.” it’s nonchalant, he shrugs it off as it passes, breathing in the scent of her ever familiar self. cigarette smoke lingering between them, signs that whilst their time together remains something sacred, the world beyond these four walls was anything but. 

his jaw clenches at the mention of them. and for a moment he cannot help but think of james, of his grievances over the past year that’d seen more ups and downs than most. he cannot help but fear that, if there was ever a misstep, he’d face the wrath of losing alice as much as james had lost lily. war was never a place for love, yet here they stood. more than ever craving the touch and affection of the one in the world they’d die for, they’d kill for. however noble they’d believed him to be, the thought of alice in the grasps of –– fraternizing with the enemy –– it invoked carnal rage within his core in which little could swell. 

lithe digits reach out for her free hand, thumb ghosting along her skin as if to reassure himself that she was real. that they had mere hours to spend in ones company before returning to the worlds that swore to separate them. leaning in, he places a chaste kiss upon her hairline, another closer to her brow before he swears he smells it. the burning flesh, the rotted carcass, the hell upon earth in which they’d been so determined to life. “three more found dead this afternoon al –– “ his brows furrow, knowing that the name ALICE WILKES was that of a betrayer, was linked to several crimes that had in fact been her downfall in the department. she’d been cast aside and he, told to simply sit back and allow it for their own sake. “–– whatever they’re doin’ to you…” his thoughts wander, vocals straining. “you have to tell me, al.” 

three more found dead. her grip upon his fingers falters. frank knows that she has done what she needs to do -- hell, they all do what they have to do to survive, to protect -- but there still rings a certain sharp hollowness within her at the thought that her involvement continues to reach the auror offices. her name and face are not attached to the bodies that they had left in a small flat on the south bank, but her presence is known there well enough. it seems that all her former coworkers, allies, friends are determined to find her in every blood splatter, written in bold on every corpse, a ghost at every crime scene. the thought of it always makes her falter, and now is no different. and so she stands halfway between the bathroom and the hall, pausing halfway through kicking off her boot. her eyes train hard upon a spot on the wall, for at once she finds it far too difficult to meet his eye. 

she had betrayed them, sure -- but the death eaters had not been so easy to convince. alice had not merely been welcomed into the fold. she had scars enough to prove that. but she’d gladly take broken fingers, wand-cuts, spell-burns over the feeling of knowing that she had been there, that she had seen them the now-dead three, and that she’d left them for frank to find. 

some couples left each other love notes, flowers, bits and baubles. alice left bodies. but she never regretted it; the information she fed in secret to frank, to moody, was invaluable -- even if it meant living in secrecy for the rest of her days. but the one secret she’d keep is of the horrors that had befallen her at the hands of the death eaters, who’d all delighted in their own form of ‘hazing‘. frank had always been too strong to show his weakness; too soft to let it change him. and so she would be, too. 

“i’m sure they’re all having a field day plastering my name all over that one,” alice mutters, shaking her head. she dodges his question, ducking instead into the bathroom and wrenching her fingers from his grasp. she can feel his eyes upon her as she kicks off her shoes, shrugs off her coat. she is bruised and sore, a bloom of purple and green flowers, with blood in her hair and soot on the tip of her nose; but this is the norm now, and his presence is the best form of healing. 

and yet she cannot help but glance over her shoulder at the sound of strain in his voice, her keen, hard eyes softening in a way they only are like to do for him. she is good, but not soft; her proclivity for softness begins and ends with frank. were it so easy as simply staying here forever -- and she certainly had given great thought to simply faking her own death and begging him to run away -- she would do so. but they were both duty-bound to see their allies through. shrugging out of her rot-stenched blouse, shimmying out of her jeans, she reached forth to run the hot water, purposefully buying time before speaking again, for she knew that he would not simply let his concern wash down the drain with the blood on her hands. 

she steps into the shower and turns to hold a hand out, shuddering as the scalding water cascades over her shoulder. “in you come,” she prods, lacking the conviction of an innocent woman, “i -- i didn’t kill them myself, if that’s what you’re thinking. i can see it on your face.” or perhaps it is her own paranoia reflected. “but they -- they refused to talk. didn’t give us a lick of information.” and for once, she’s GLAD.

when: october 4th, 1982, 9:14 am. where: Outside Gringotts, Diagon Alley, London. who: james potter & @magewraths​ ( ted )

Many of the Order had forged some sense of friendship with one another, camaraderie in the spoke of war and tensions, and it was no different. Not when she was there, nor when she was gone, that James happily took to Ted. That he was a bright force, passionate (a little too much) about animals enough to show Harry now and again when they ran into one another. Today, it was the likes of Diagon Alley. He’d remained as a Cursebreaker with Gringotts, being given the sabbatical to care for his infant son during the year he’d lost his wife. But he was going back soon, November nearing around the corner. Exiting Gringotts, he stopped on the stoop as Harry moved gingerly down the steps, James allowing him to make his own path, when he spotted Ted. “Tonks, mate,” He extended his hand to shake Ted’s as James turned his attention back to his son. “Been well?”

If there was one thing that Ted Tonks felt more fervently for than anything in the world, it was family. The Order was his; it was all he had, all he cared to have, all the war had allowed him to have. His own family -- all muggles, and all oblivious -- lived a thousand miles away. They had stopped sending letters when Ted had stopped responding. It was easier than seeing them embroiled in a war that they were designed to lose. This was, he thought, both a luxury and an utter damnation; perhaps this was why he had thrown himself so heartily into his work. He loved the work, loved the creatures -- even loved the entirely non-magical dogs that he’d picked up off the streets. But it was the family created by what remained of the Order that meant the world to them all. 

And James was a special case. In private, he had thrown himself into a silent watchfulness, ensuring that the younger man was allowed time to grieve, time to care for his son, time to recover. Though he had little right to be, Ted was abundant with pride at how well James was raising young Harry, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the boy would grow up just fine -- all thanks to his father. 

It certainly helped that the young boy had no qualms indulging Ted when he brought round animals, books, and photographs to parade before him like a proud uncle. It had taken a bit of convincing that the animals themselves were harmless; the fluffier and quieter, the better -- for Harry and James both. 

 He tucked his things into his bag and held his arms wide when he saw Harry and James emerge from the bank. “Morning!” he called, hurrying forth to take James’s hand, giving it a firm shake before stooping to offer a shake to the young boy, “You’re out early. I’ve just been following up on a lead about an Augurey in Suffolk.” He looked to Harry, “Enormous, fluffy birds. Quite cute -- but not quite meant to be in Surrey.” 

Ted straightened, offering James a smile he could only imagine he so needed. “Which way are you headed? I’ll walk with you.”

when: october 7th, 1982. where: St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries who: andromeda black & @magewraths​ ( ted )

Dance, they would say. Andromeda would. Move, they demanded, and she did. Sway, and sing my song and become our unknown prisoner, and she walked into the fire and said alright. This was Andromeda’s life. This was fate. This was her life. But the life she chose, the one she didn’t walk away from, this was the life she was living now. The ring on her finger was more forced there than lovingly put, the future Mrs. Travers made Andromeda want to choke herself at the thought. Thankfully, above everything else—she had her work. The only thing she refused to let anyone to stand before, stop her from following through. She had too. It was the last sane thing she had in her life. A life, she supposed, most people akin to her name, her family, would’ve all but killed for. Some had. All Andromeda could think of was the cage, how the bars moved everywhere she went. A step forward, and the binds were still there. She was promised freedom, Druella and Cygnus singing it to their middle child like it was some heavenly prayer. But she knew the truth.

Stepping inside of St. Mungos, Andromeda nodded to the front desk Witch, as she moved towards the lift that would take her to her floor. Spell Damage. High above the eyes of London where windows cascaded the scenery of a world she didn’t fully know, no more than absolutely necessary. But she was stopped, her name called to her. ‘Andromeda—‘ A voice nearly shouted, as she stopped. ‘There’s an influx of patients on this floor, ma’am—could you come work here for an hour? Allison’s on her lunch, no one can find her.’ She nodded slowly. “Certainly—let me put my things down—“ She moved quickly, bag and coat slung in the small locker room off the hall of the floor, as she moved back. Wand tucked in her pocket, long apron tied around her middle as she moved into the room. ‘This lad’s had his face nearly clawed by a Grindylow—‘ The incredulous look said it all. ‘Apparently he tried huggin’ one of ‘em.’ “You’re joking…” She could only hope, as she ushered the thought out loud.

As she passed a cart, a jar of salve in her hand to the man laying with half his face covered on the bed. She didn’t think, as she sat. Didn’t suggest anything other than the particular speech that fell from all their lips, like mindless monsters. “My name is Andromeda, I’ll be—“ She finally looked down at him, and words stopped. She didn’t need to say much, some fainting moment of her mind where a boyish grin would’ve rose her own to her lips involuntarily. “If you want a permanent bed here, I think all you need to do is ask. Save yourself the injury.” She murmured, licking her lips slowly. “This is the third injury this month, Tonks. You can’t possibly like it here that much.” She noted, uncapping the jar. “Does it hurt anywhere else but your face?”

“Let me just clarify, if I may --” he began, before even seeing who it was that entered the room in which he’d been so unceremoniously stuffed, “-- I didn’t try to hug the Grindylow, contrary to popular rumor. If you embrace them, it’s much easier to trim their --” He paused then, too, at once aflush with the scarlet heat of recognition, of slight embarrassment, and of relief that it was she who was to attend to his wounds, and not someone else. Someone else, someone who did not understand, might pass him off as some sort of loon too soft for his own good. But Healers like Andromeda Black -- though so few and far between there were -- did not judge, did not scold, did not shame. It was nearly worth having his nose nearly bitten clean off to speak to her, to try and make her LAUGH if only once. 

Nearly, almost, most certainly. 

He cannot help the small smile that tugged at his features, no matter how badly it pulled at the wound on his face. “Someone’s got to feed the small zoo currently residing in my flat,” he chuckled, “or else I might take you up on that offer. Close proximity to you means I’d last a little longer without falling to bits.” This certainly went without saying; the quiet flutter of affection that he harbored for this particular Healer was a strange thing, and one that he daren’t put a name to. Perhaps he was merely grateful for her proclivity for gentleness. Perhaps he was glad to speak to someone who found his folly amusing, and not a chore. 

Perhaps he really, really, truly wanted the simple victory of making her laugh. But he certainly couldn’t do it with a bloody gash upon his face. 

“Busy day today?” he mused, prodding absently at the bloodied tip of his nose, “Sorry to, er, you know -- could’ve tried to sew the thing up myself, but then I think you might have been cross with me when I inevitably surrendered to my own uselessness later on.” Why was it that he talked too much? Why was it that all of it sounded like nonsense? Why was it that he wished to continue talking to her?

Still, he shook his head, pointing only to his nose, his brow, and his lip, which swelled and split over a bruised chin. “Just the face,” he conceded, sighing, “This time.”

when: october 4th , 1982 where: ministry of magic who: cecelia avery & @magewraths ( alastor )

oh , cruel fate. the twist of a knife , the fleeting stars that fill the night sky. they burn , they die. she remains rigid if only to not allow herself to succumb to anger. files in hand , longbottom had requested them over her head and whilst she was anything but happy about it, the greeting in the aurors office this late at night was anything but warm. it was supposed to be confidential, a secret and yet –– the dead were seemingly more important than the living.  “longbottom not here?”  she chides, brows raising in question as she speaks. “i really don’t think i should be leaving these with –– “ bitterness bites on her tongue as she speak. “anyone else.” head auror or not, there were few in which cecelia answered to and alastor moody was certainly not one of them.

ah -- and this is why he keeps whiskey in his bottom drawer. he cannot control the harsh downward turn of his lips as he sees HER round the corner, papers in hand. he has lingered here far too long; of course, he remains here per solitas every single night, as he has nothing but a cat and a head full of worry to return to, but this is the first instance in a long while in which he has sincerely regretted it. at her question, he snaps his gaze to the dark doorway in which frank usually lingers -- and in which alastor usually observes him, as it is his duty to ensure that his best auror is not losing his bloody mind in the absence of his short, loud counterpart -- and then back again. 

“unless he’s in there sittin’ alone in the dark, i’d say it’s quite obvious that longbottom’s gone home,” alastor shifts in his seat, bristling out of sheer habit. he takes great pains to keep his gaze on her face, which is difficult enough, and not on the rock that gleams even in the dim light of his office. “as his superior, i disagree. what -- writing secret notes that not even the head auror can see?”

he need’t be so flippant, so rude -- but how else is he supposed to act? HONEST? certainly not.

when: october 3rd, 5:42 am where: Aberdeenshire, Scotland. who: marlene mckinnon & @magewraths​ ( alastor )

It was unnerving. The very spot the rug was ripped out from under you, demanded you relinquish it. For some greater good, for his greater good. Marlene didn’t care. She didn’t care he sold information, and what it was. She didn’t care if he was a traitor. She didn’t care if he was willing to help and the lengths he would go to do so. She didn’t fucking care. This was her family home. Apparating, as the sound broke the silence of the Scottish hills, the bellowing wind whistling. Strands blown in every direction, but she’d never been one to tame her wild curls, standing there with her hands pocketed. It was nearly twenty-or-so strides away. Ruins. That was the last message of the McKinnon family. Here they laid, in ruins. Crumbled from the inside out, shattered. She began to move forward, steps taken enough when the sudden faint pop drifted through the air. Marlene’s wand dropped, extended behind her as she came face to face with the new soul arriving. Moody. She lowered it slowly, sunken into her silence for a moment. It was then, after the motion to pocket her weapon, as she moved to fall in line with his strides, eyes trained on the house. “When can we move Black out?” She asked, but her tone more so commanded an answer she wanted to hear rather than the obvious one she’d receive. Never it felt like. “I’d like to stop coming back here sooner rather than later.” She murmured, approaching the house, stepping one foot beyond the barrier of ruins where the spells slowly lifted, exposing a door, as she opened it for her boss.

She had a chip on her shoulder, and rightly so. Alastor was not like to tolerate attitude from his allies -- and it seemed that was all he was like to get nowadays -- but he found it in himself to bite his tongue as they appeared at the top of the hill overlooking what remained of the McKinnon family home. He himself was lucky enough to have squirreled his muggle mother and sister away just north of Inverness; his father had not been so lucky, though he knew what he had been getting himself into. Just as the McKinnons had, he figured. Anyone involved in the struggle they found themselves entrenched in knew the risks. And perhaps that was why Marlene was so willing -- despite her tone and insistence -- to return here, despite the connotations the place held. 

He disliked it, though not as much as she did. But it had been Dumbledore’s call; perhaps now he could make a call of his own. 

Alastor shuffled forth, dodging her question in favor of silently approaching the barrier spell that had been so meticulously maintained. “Wish I had a better answer for you,” he huffed, pausing just beyond the spell’s silent protection, where he knew that any rogue wanderers combing the highlands would see only a ruined legacy of a home, and not the two that lingered in the doorway. “But d’you have a better idea of where to keep the kid? A flat in London? A shack in the woods? A shoebox, perhaps? Enough of a runt to pull it off, I suppose.” 

It was always easier like this -- swallow the sympathy, then stomp on it. This was business; the business of keeping as many kids alive as possible. He wasn’t about to shirk that duty. 

when: october 1st , 1982 where: safehouse, applecross, scotland  who: frank longbottom & @magewraths ( alice )

DARE he even say it? with the flick of his wand, fire ignites itself within fireplace as he paces. counting the minutes, counting the seconds. it was their sanctuary, was it not? zeus curled up in the corner, already making himself at home as frank found digits running through tousled locks, nervous tick. echoing sound of a chanting clock as if to say –– she’s not coming, she won’t make it. he pushes thoughts to the back of his head if only to swallow lump that’d found itself lodged within throat. loud crack breaking through the heavy silence in which he’s grown comfortable in. “––you’re late.” it isn’t anger, nor annoyance. mere relief as his gaze trails from flickering flames, entrancing him, towards her. 

the journey here is a necessary one. mere moments before, she’d found herself near bent double in an alleyway, sick to her stalwart stomach because of the atrocities she’d swallowed, the horror she’d parroted, the violence she’d heard tossed about like a chat over coffee -- and about those she cherished most, no less. it should not have surprised her; this was the norm for people like her newfound “allies”, like debating quidditch was -- had been -- for she and her own friends. but alice would never grow used to the ruse, no matter how good she had become at it. she wished she could scrub herself clean from the inside out -- 

-- but the out would do. 

she appears with a crack in the dimly lit sitting room, sparsely furnished but comfortable enough to make do for their covert meetings. her eyes find him at once, and she momentarily forgets the vile energy upon her, throwing herself forth to wrap her arms around his neck and squeeze -- before breaking away again. 

“i’m sorry,” she says, half-breathless, “i didn’t mean to --” alice shakes her head, presses the heel of her hand to her brow, “i need a shower. need to wash this shit off. i can still smell them on me.” she hopes he’ll join; she always hopes he’ll join. but she is bristled at every edge, and not the ideal lover to return to. if there was a time for romance, she fears she’s forgotten it. 

Send “✘” for a HATEFUL text.

FROM THE OFFICE OF ALASTOR MOODY. 

Miss Avery, 

If you would be so kind as to keep that greasy fuck your fiancé out of my department, I would be eternally grateful. I do understand that some men regretfully neglect their reading comprehension skills, but I do sincerely hope that Mister Rosier can read the fucking signs on my goddamn doors understands, at the very least, indicative arrows and symbols. If children looking for their parents in upper levels have the wherewithal not to wander into the Auror Offices, certainly your counterpart can do the same. Dumbass. Your own avoidance of my floor would lead me to believe that you, at least, know where certain unauthorized presences are not welcome. Do see to it that he minds where he wanders. 

Kindest regards, Alastor Moody

Send “$” for an ACCIDENTAL text.

the letter is delivered in an owl-related mix-up. it is after this that alastor vows never to use a ministry owl again. 

Arthur, 

Please tell Molly that I don’t need any comforting today. I know how she gets -- never should have told her that today’s the anniversary of, well, you know. Seems like she’s not even inclined to look my way in the lifts anymore. I hate being a fucking sap, Arthur, but I also can’t goddamn handle anniversaries, ‘specially bad ones. Seeing her flaunt that rock she’s got on her finger, today of all days -- gotta keep believing that she’s not trying to rub it in my face. That’s not her way. She’s too damn good for that, too damn good for him. 

Being alone is easier. I don’t know how you manage, loving Molly like that. Lucky you, knowing you’ll never lose her. 

Anyway, I’m done being sappy. Gonna put some whiskey in my coffee. Fixes everything. You coming for lunch?

Alastor

Send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT.

Cecelia, I know I’m not a man of means, nor am I a man who knows how to treat a woman such as you. I must admit I’ve never really loved anyone before, save my own family. I debated sending this to you, but I figure the time we’ve had I figure life is a gift and I figure you’re going to I Shit

Cecelia, I may not have much money, but I do have respect for you that I guarantee he doesn’t have. Being an Auror doesn’t pay much, but you’d be safe. 

Cecelia, I know where I rank in the scheme of things -- half-blood and falling to pieces, with barely a galleon to my name. And I know how I feel about you for certain. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Letters are fucking stupid. 

Cecelia, Hard to believe you said yes to that prick so easily. Didn’t peg you as the sort to I understand that you’ve got some lofty ideas about “duty”, but you don’t have

Cecelia, What happened to you to make you think that you’ve got no way out of this? Is this really what you want? Do you love the guy or not? Listen, Cece, you’re no picnic, but you’re the most amazing woman -- I know how the world works. I’ve got nothing to offer next to that asshat. No status, no big house, not enough money to sustain your infatuation with those fancy teas. But I’m too fuckin’ involved, Cecelia. I’m in it too deep. Just say no. You don’t have to be what they want you to be. They’ve got you trapped, Cecelia, and one day it’s gonna destroy you. Maybe not right away, because you’re stronger than hell, but eventually -- I see what this shit does to people. What those people do to each other. You’re not like that. You’re better. You’re different. You’re better. 

name  : fenrir bjornolf greyback 

birthday / age : born april 3, 1936 ; aged 44

residence : a run-down cabin in the woods in surrey

gender / pronouns : cisgender male, he/him

sexuality : bisexual, biromantic

blood status : half-blood ; werewolf 

relationship status : single and ready to mingle 

hogwarts house : did not attend hogwarts, but rather durmstrang -- and dropped out in his fourth year

loyalty : the pack the death eaters ; his loyalty is, first and foremost, to his pack. they come before all else. he allies with the death eaters out of convenience, and out of a hope for advancement for their kind. but if the pack were to find themselves in danger at the hands of the death eaters, that’d be a different story.

career : unemployed ; currently bouncing between odd jobs

mbti : ESTJ

moral alignment : neutral evil 

character tropes : papa wolf, psycho for hire, black and grey morality, try to catch me fighting dirty, utopia justifies the means, the conman, i did what i had to do