𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔠 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔱

For a businessman of repute, the Ministry Gala serves as a networking platform where deals are made and polite acquaintances are forged into alliances; it is not the sort of work in which Meric participates. The werewolf shakes no proffered hands in contract and he makes no proper verbal bargains. His fortunes are divined, instead, in dark alleyways where shapeless monsters slip like phantoms through the filth a grime. He negotiates in death wagers and arranges covenants sealed in blood — all for the rarest and most nefarious trinkets and treasures dug up from the deepest pockets of the earth. This sort of work affords him few lofty connections, but he considers the wandmaker such a one. By the time Meric considers bridging the gap from nonverbal acknowledgement to conversation, some moron sets a candelabra ablaze in a bloom of green flames and the room erupts in momentary chaos.

Questions about his mother’s well-being bury his mood. References to his wife when he’s been divorced three years suffocate his spirit. Fielding the same tired political opinions from the same hair-brained radicals looming by the punch bowl exhaust him. He’s learned his lesson quickly, and by this point in the evening, he’s avoided more conversations than he’s entertained. Standing at the edge of the room where shadows gather and few wander, he surveys with growing irritation. A wolf pacing the boundaries of a well-lit camp. A beast lumbering within the confines of its inherited cage. Eyes of pure obsidian sweep across the room with indifference, but hang on familiar lineaments; he doesn’t expect to see Edgar Bones.

From the trenches where his childhood memories are buried, Meric finds himself excavating sepia-toned images of a younger Bones following him through an open plain. Moments spent with him in the sun of an estate’s lavish gardens, or languishing with open books along a fountain’s ledge. Then in the later years, after his father’s death, the sting of a forged bond disintegrating. Perhaps it’s the whiskey singing in his veins or just the need for a real connection in a labyrinth of meaningless etiquette — Meric abandons another empty glass and traverses the space between them.

Politics raise his hackles. The puppets are perched at the front of the room, their ventriloquist mouths mouthing susurrous promises they have no intention to keep, weaving platforms specifically designed to birth radicals and resentment. It’s a game, a distraction. In the end, the pendulum always swings too far to either side. There is no room for gray area in these endless debates and the world is not a black and white place. Meric’s opinions are sealed behind canines gritted harshly against the glare of chandeliers — enchanted to flicker and glow like a candle’s persistent light. He moves through the crowd all wrapped in tailored suits and flowing gowns, scanning the droves of wizarding elite for a familiar frame —- his date. 

What he finds instead is Virgil Gatewood tilting a vial of something noxious into an unsuspecting witch’s goblet. His first instinct is to look away; it’s not his place to meddle in the affairs of others. What does this woman’s life and integrity mean to him? But on second thought, he’s reminded of how little respect he has for Gatewood. Seeing him diminished in a grand room like this is too great an opportunity to bypass. Rather than moving in the opposite direction, he advances and catches the wrist of the careless wizard who blanches at the contact.

closed to ─ : @mericmulciber. location ─ : the flint family manor. date && time ─ :  april 27th, 1979 && 8:56pm. word prompt starter ─ : monkshood.

「❄」the frayed note tucked into the pocket, encased within the billows of her skirt, is the result of weeks of careful planning, perched prettily by the side of the flint heir as he falls further into her trap, nibbling morsels of finger food from between her grasp. each word had been softened, body made pliant from instinctive rigidity around the males of her species ─ the urge to recoil away, to drag him by the hair and beat the life from him for even daring to touch her is suffocated with a goose down pillow and buried beside her pride, rotting within her. hushed murmurs detailed election plans were of utmost importance during such a time, when the world was torn between two sides and the ministry was torn between two candidates. it had been enough to entice the young witch to abandon all thoughts of rationality and now she was left prying his sweaty grasp from the curve of her waist, lips bestowing sweet excuses and mournful regrets to make an escape under the guise of getting him a drink after the desire tidbit of intelligence had been acquired.

    narcissa black does not run, though the brisk pace that she takes when striding out of the parlor room could hardly be considered a relaxed stroll, breaking from the cream colored architecture of the women’s sitting room into the dark offices that belonged to her father and his father and their fathers ─ she has breached into the territory of men now, and so molds herself to the atmosphere, eyes brightening as they fall upon a collection of aged liquors and the familiar figure that lounges by the bar. 

❝ mulciber. ❞ calmly, she slides over to the corner he has made for himself, encroaching without much hesitation. better to seek advice from a danger that she knew vaguely, in passing, rather than entangle herself further in the words of strange men. ❝ could one such as myself consider one such as yourself a friend ? i require some advice pertaining to powdered aconite and i wouldn’t want to offend any delicate sensibilities by making assumptions. ❞

The werewolf’s spirit wanes, the recent full moon having racked his body with merciless metamorphosis. Though healing is expedited, there are times when the violence haunts him —- crossing the barrier between worlds and saturating shorn edges with pails of blood. At first, he could remember none of it; the world that belonged to the lycanthrope within was a well-kept secret even from himself. All that remained after the monster’s moonlit reign were exhausted muscles, demanding aches, marbling bruises, and hateful scars. Now, he’s beginning to remember for reasons he can’t understand and buried self-loathing bubbles, acidic, at the top of his throat. Wolfsbane potion does little to alleviate the encroaching darkness that festers in his marrow; the infection runs too deep to relent. There are two evils warring for purchase upon the surface of his blackened heart now.

Sitting in a room of suited men reminds Meric of his father. Ice tinkles in bauble-like glasses and they entertain notions of ruling the world from their inherited thrones. All in hushed, diplomatic tones, though. All with feigned reverence to a higher power. Knowing glances between death eaters. Shriveling disdain for those neutral or less well-off. His lip curls in disgust, but he is no better — it is why he relaxes in such a room. He imagines they all look at one another with the same frank disapproval, though he does so without pretending to hide it.

“Mm,” is his close-lipped response to Narcissa’s unsanctioned approach. He likens her to a pale siren, the type described in selkie lore, the type rendered in ancient art. Though her words surprise him ( particularly her easy utterance of friend ), he shows no sign of it. Instead, he sips meditatively from his glass of whiskey and watches as if she might strike like a serpent at any moment. No one can be trusted, but alliances are necessary in this world of bludgeoned egos. No one is safe from the myriad clutches of pride’s masterwork. “Aconite,” he repeats slowly, the word heavy on his tongue. “So you ask the werewolf.” 

@mericmulciber !

date: early spring of 1979 location: the black family manor 

     it’s an art form, the way andromeda flits and flutters about with well-mannered grace in a room filled to the brim with the very same people she would rather not associate with. appearances are everything, however – this was a lesson ingrained in her from a young age, taught to perfect a fake smile and present herself with polite decorum regardless of the thoughts and feelings brewing beneath the surface. so she does just that, making rounds through the guests ( criminals, miscreants, deatheaters – the kind of company her family hailed as honourable and respectable, the kind of company that made disgust sink her stomach and held her down like a ball and chain ) when she would much rather be anywhere else but in the thick of the party. 

     a glass of champagne is held between deft fingers as she takes carefully placed steps through the ballroom, sipping every so often in a vague attempt to mellow her spirit and to keep her skin from crawling even more than it already did.  

     figure approaches in time for her to halfway drain her glass, a brow raised upon recognition of who it is – mulciber, whom she knows only by extension of dearest bella. “ i do believe you’ve come upon the wrong sister, ” soft chuckle tumbles from equally soft lips, contrast to the tongue-in-cheek comments to bracket it, “ and in any event you might ask, no, i am not aware of bella’s whereabouts. ”

The room pulsates with a convoluted energy. Hands snake along his shoulders in false camaraderie. Women in decadent gowns consider his figure. They are soulless like him. This is what Meric hates about being a pureblood — the lavish parties, the delicate flutes of champagne, the premeditated social cues — yet it’s all he’s ever known. Building his own empire had been a dream brought low by the wizarding world’s limiting ceiling. Despite looking  beyond the tired social constructs that bound him, that bound and polluted his family, he found himself stuck in the outer rim. Swallowed constantly by an ocean of pretense, unable to move beyond its suffocating atmosphere. What higher purpose was there for a man like him?

Footfalls encircle him and Andromeda’s musical lilt cossets his ear. “ Or the wrong sister has come upon me,” he rebuts, watching her with a level predatory gaze he can’t shake. The truth was, he was here for one particular purpose: to make a deal. Not to his surprise, his patron was running late, so Meric had taken to lingering by the mantle and surveying the room like a roosted crow from behind the brim of his glass. 

         REAL CHARMING –––– it never fails to amaze her how some people can be so effortlessly and utterly unpleasant. the fact that meric doesn’t feel inclined to share his freakish little diary with her doesn’t exactly bother her, but he’s annoyingly conspicuous. so it goes, she repeats to herself, a half-hearted mantra of sorts. you can’t win ‘em all. 

        “  i know ENOUGH.  ”  so she’d like to think, anyway. amelia is fairly sure she knows more than meric, at least about things that actually matter ––– as far as his inherently unique perspective goes, she’s quite willing to just phone it in and assume the worst.  “  charity would imply that you WANT me here,  ”  she doesn’t take a seat, rather leans against the bar, overtly aware of her surroundings & the fact that she may not be wanted here. what a crowd.

         “  besides, who says i’m not doing business? MAYBE i wanted to buy that little .. stinky notebook of yours –––  you’re being very presumptuous.  ”  projecting is what she does best, and she’s almost comically aware of the degree to which she is describing herself in her accusation. takes one to know one, amelia supposes, off-handedly gesturing towards whomever, whatever, is working the bar for a drink.  “  and you seem awfully DEFENSIVE for someone who is actively trying to shake me off. i don’t know, meric ––– you’re kind of doing my job for me.  ”  for which she is not at all grateful, as is made evident by the truly shit-eating grin she’s sporting.  “ you don’t mind if i join you, RIGHT?  ”

“Yet I continue to elude Azkaban’s clutches,” he taunts, his off-kilter grin as unseemly as ever. “And yours.” The amber liquid in his cracked glass is replenished, though he doesn’t lift it to his lips. The tinkling ice is swirled absently, his mind distracted, his heart errant. With the night growing deep and the pub’s patrons ( all of varying levels of ill-repute ) dwindling down to those most conspicuous, he wonders just how long he’ll have to entertain her.

She lingers at his side, refusing to sit — she’s keeping her guard up. Sitting down would imply she felt comfortable, relaxed. Keeping her feet beneath her means she doesn’t lose control of herself in this miasmic layer of hell. His eyes catalogue her movements; he’s as watchful as a hungry predator who’s claimed the high ground. “Then that was definitely the wrong word,” he concedes, his words singed. Meric throws back his whiskey and hisses as the caustic liquor retreats down his throat. The collective glare of the room burns twice as much, but he’s accustomed to the weight.

↳ TASK 001. // word association ;

Enlarged pupils rested on him, outlining every element & crease of his physiognomy before the woman’s head offered a slight bow. no part of his behavior surprised her ( delighted her, yes, but never startled her ) for she was in the presence of an old acquaintance, an associate. standing before him, raising a divide between them & the rest, time seemed to freeze. the dance of exchanges between them pleased her, filling her with a contentment not many would expect to find in her. the reverence for meric manifested itself in each of her words, and the reberverating madness exhuberated by each of them created a dark embrace that encircled the two of them at once.

   bellatrix’s cheeks glistened wth a delicate tinge of crimson, which didn’t hesitate after he spoke. chiseled fingers gently touched the side of her jaw, a giggle escaping her lips at the sound of the word DEADLY. “ oh, meric – ” her grin widened during the reticence trailing behind each word so as to exhibit her comodity & assurance – “ why does it strike me as though you didn’t know ( ME ) at all ? ” partially a reference of the affluence & renown to the BLACK surname. 

   the witch’s eyes sparkled with devilment, her features clouding with an ubearable attraction to the treasure, like a feline who’d found a source for enjoyment – she could already tell the taste of a successful deal on her tongue. her fingertips palpitated with excitement, the eagerness to caress the book’s pages & to fondle its spine present in every blood cell. she was pleased at the smoothness of his dialogue, yet aroused by the challenge he presented. bellatrix let out a soft sigh, “ it didn’t take me long to guess you wouldn’t ask for less in return —- say i were interest… what is it that you’d want for it ? ” 

Their shadows are kindred, squaring off in a spectral dance, haunting crooked forest paths, running along black sand beaches, fierce and unbridled. His werewolf heart is tugged by lunar phases and while Bellatrix doesn’t morph under mother moon’s alabaster gaze, there is something feral that lives within her, too. Something that won’t be chained, something stirring and listening in the yawning deep. The room that holds their bones falls away in forgotten layers and Meric, blissfully forgetting, lets the twisted world that lives in their shared words, their shared gazes, hold dominion over his focus. She’s a magnet, a rope that pinions, and he’s willingly strangled.

Following the current of their conversation’s undertow, he finally pulls his eyes from hers — forsaking the blushing edges of her cheeks ( a decidedly uneven trade ) for the ragged skin of Koldings’ grimoire. Weathered hands draw along its face, the grit of encrusted sand scraping. “I know you all too well, Bellatrix Black,” he answers, off-kilter lips lifting at the corner. The alliteration in her name matching his own; another way their lives abut at complementing corners. “I know the power of your house, but the power in these pages could rival it as well as my own. Perhaps it is best suited for his hands,” he says, black eyes cutting to hers for a reaction. 

If Voldemort knew he’d obtained such a thing without sharing its contents, he might meet his fate sooner rather than later. 

     the  barbaric  tome  is  tucked  away;  though  its  secretive  appellation  has  purloined  documented  interest  by  surrounding  inhabitants.  whose  wand  will  expel  the  killing  curse  for  such  an  artifact  tonight  ?  most  refute  his  presence,  but  meric  remains  attentive  to  the  hit  wizard’s  lethal  aura.  he  often  disregarded  those  whose  observation  lingered;  his  caustic  tongue  splitting  the  synapses  of  forlorn  reverie  and  corroding  the  offender.

     his  chin  raises,  mouth  pressing  into  an  attenuated  line.  the  dark  lord’s  eyes  were  a  wolf’s  augmented  senses.  the  youngest  lestrange  traversed  a  keen  route  of  deception,  his  tainted  allegiance  property  of  his  own  stained  soul.  an  inscribed,  skulled  serpent  the  color  of  licorice  –  acquired  and  bitter  –  sears  his  flesh.  the  ferocity  of  his  rebellion  had  been  quelled  by  veritaserum;  the  assassination  of  both  matriarch  and  patriarch  verbally  bled  into  the  atmosphere  with  mulciber  across  the  chamber.  formidable  loathing  resurrected  itself  –  targeted  each  of  lucifer’s  archangels.  now,  with  a  plethora  of  moons  past,  the  demonized  werewolf  has  been  sanctioned  rebirth.  a  mastered  facade  reemerges;  a  tenebrous  cranium  tilts.  ❛  of  course  you  won’t  be,  ❜  the  edge  of  dual  lips  etch  into  a  smirk,  hazel  irises  taunt,  ❛  you  haven’t  even  bought  me  a  drink.  ❜

     to  validate  his  point,  an  arm  extends  languidly,  slender  digits  uncurled  and  expectant.  a  gaze  flicks  from  condensated  crystalline  to  its  rugged  proprietor.  ❛  the  rich  have  more  to  lose.  ❜

They share violent patricide — the first tether that ever bound them, perhaps the strongest still, though it remains a buried link to the young, marked one. If Meric were to tell him they share that same locked room at the end of the same haunted corridor, that he carries with him a similar mantle ( his father’s murderer ), would it make a difference in these moments? Would it change the timbre of their tones, the weight in their gazes, the spells of quiet between each exchange? 

It changed his own regard of Rabastan Lestrange, even though he struggles to understand what to make of it. Since that night an ivory forearm was branded, after Rabastan’s throat sang with caustic truth, Meric began paying more attention to the obsidian shallows beneath his eyes; his disappearing tricks into alleyways; his serpent tongue; his unaffected air. He noticed his dubious associations with others, a flippant nature, an unending loyalty to his brother. He knew there was so much more beneath the surface, but he was still just treading water with the younger wizard.

location | outside the leaky cauldron

time | about 11:00 p.m.

status | open

        her sigh was heavy with the weariness from the day. the day had been long; far too long for her liking and filled with people who truly made her question the future of their society provided war didn’t kill them all. it’d been a long time since she’d been tired down to her bones, since she’d felt like things were really going to get worse before they got better. it took a lot to bring marlene mckinnon down, but the day she’d experienced had done just that. 

           leaning against the outside of the pub, the blonde took another drag of her cigarette before exhaling the smoke that always seemed to make her feel a little less shitty. sure, she could have gone home instead of journeying to find a pub different than the one she’d worked in all day, but she hadn’t been ready to go back and see her brother was still gone on some secret mission or something of the sort. 

        “i need a drink,” she declared, more to herself than anyone else. “a strong one. one of many.” the truth was, that the weight of the world was beginning to shatter through the sunny walls she’d put up. “care to join me, or do you have better things to do with your time?” she tossed towards the person closest to her, her tone laced with sarcasm despite her grin.

English highways, slick and gleaming from constant spring rain, had been his companion for the better part of the day. It was rare he was able to turn his back on the machinations of his world and fall, guileless, into the arms of his most buried obsession — but today, he’d done just that. Even through the bitter, stinging gray of the sunless countryside, riding his motorbike had brought him a sense of peace and level-headedness only a great amount whiskey could bring, otherwise. But when the sun finally set and darkness took to the ground like a legion of marching wraiths, Mulciber had stashed his bike and slunk through the muggle-crowded streets of London toward The Leaky Cauldron. 

As he made toward the clattering front door, an offer caught him by the ends of his hair. Heavy black boots stop, squelching on the blacktop. He doesn’t answer her with words. Instead, he dips his hand into the breast pocket of his leather jacket and draws out an ornate flask — an elaborate ‘M’ is inscribed in painstaking calligraphy on its glinting side. As he twists the lid off with his teeth, he traverses the space between them. When he arrives at her side, he takes a long drink, and then offers her the burn of fire whiskey therein. 

for someone that despises death eaters and everything they stood for, emma spent a lot time wandering among them and cozying up to the occasional scum. but rarely did she wander with her face unveiled in public, crowded areas that might result in people talking. she was, after all a well respected quidditch player on the field and had a reputation to uphold in front of the scenes. but that never stopped her from daring to play the devil’s game time and time again. it was an inescapable addiction. she loved venturing on the dark side, bringing herself closer to reaching her goal.

having stepped into the bar minutes before the conversation came to a close, emma was perked up on a stool, drink in hand, curiously eavesdropping on hushed whispers. she’d always preferred potions to spells, but the allure of darkness was something that never ceased to draw her in. she did her utter best to ignore the unsolicited attention from greedy, walking cliches attempting to make a move at her, not in the slightest interested.

then, as a hand slid onto her shoulder, the poised beauty growled and slammed her nearly finished glass into the table, caring little about the scene she stirred.

“ if you don’t remove grimy hand from me, i will TAKE it from you.” she hissed with eyes narrowed to slits, glaring at the male with a feral look in her gaze.

“ so, I suggest before you allow me to make a fool out of you in front of the rest of your vile bunch of hooligans, you LEAVE.”

Already sliding her unexposed hand into the depths of her robe pocket, grasping onto the knife she kept on her person, she waited for them to either leave or make a scene, now entirely distracted from the scene between the two males coming to a close.

Hencher lopes away with his handsome remuneration, his gait stilted but steady; he tends to favor his right leg and swings his arm out as if it’s heavy and lifeless, a burden. The death eater finds it curious that the man can swallow his pride and self-respect long enough to remain in Mulciber’s dubious employ. It’s either a sign of pure strength or sniveling weakness, considering Meric is the reason he shuffles so severely when he walks. The crowd closes in around the conspicuous figure and Meric’s black eyes fall down to preserved parchment, his fingertips running lovingly along the charmed script. His focus is shattered — a delicate sheet of fine crystal — when a woman’s serpentine threat paralyzes the room. 

Meric turns in his chair, the grimoire momentarily forgotten, to observe the drama unfolding at the other end of the room. It isn’t abnormal to see someone accosted with an air of lasciviousness within these shrouded walls — however, it’s often well-received. Darkness breathes darkness and exhales something vile; a perfect, revolving circle of depravity and iniquitousness. Her tempestuous words conjure a smirk out of him; her harsh tone alone could break the lech’s crooked fingers.

He stands, tucking the dilapidated tome into his breast pocket, and crosses with the soundless conviction of a predator. It’s unclear if those in the room part ways at the mere suggestion of his movement ( cutting like a black river ) or if some unspoken spell bends them away like trees bowing in a violent storm. He bears no loyalty to the woman ( though her face is familiar to him ) and he harbors no real ill will toward the man who assaulted her, but he’s been itching for a reason to hurt someone. Might as well be in defense of someone else.

A gnarled blackthorn instrument is drawn from his robes and the grooves in his palm welcome its familiar mold. He presses its insidious point against the small of the perpetrator’s back and the crinkle of ice unfolds in a sheet upon his skin without warning — a frostbitten membrane that draws the blush from his cheeks, the pink from his lips. It creeps along the man’s spine and arrests his joints until all that he can move are the yolks of his eyes which swim, round and round, inside his skull. Meric lifts his jaw and wraps his own fingers around the set he’s frozen — the set which gripped the nameless woman’s sculpted shoulder. He squeezes and the digits crunch and splinter like glass. Pieces of him skitter across the floor.

 flickering   lamp   light             spills   out   into   the   damp   streets,     raucous   laughter   ringing   as   the   door   crashes   shut.        a   muffled   charm,     and   regulus’s   rain  -  soaked   hair   dries,     and   once   again   he   cannot   help   but   marvel   that   the   nearly   tangible   scent   of   alcohol   hanging   in   the   air   yet   hasn't   set   the   place   to   flame.        it   is   not   oft   he   finds   himself   with   time   to   spare,     rarer   still   that   he   spends   it   in   seedy   pubs.        the   H E I R   of   house   black   must   conduct   themselves   well,     after   all.        but   as   the   days   drag   on,     the   war   looming   ever   nearer,     the   walls   of   the   manor   almost   seem   to   close   in—     pressing   tighter   and   tighter   till   he   can’t   seem   to   breathe.        kreacher   will   keep   his   secrets.       he   always   does.

 then,     there—   at   the   back   of   the   room.        a   familiar   dark   head   bent   over   a   book,     the   discreet   exchange   of   coin.        it   seems,     even   here,     he   can’t   quite   manage   to   escape   the   dark   lord’s   reach.        the   smile   on   his   face   is   a   tad   rueful   as   he   makes   his   way   across   the   rickety   floors,     but   he   goes   all   the   same.        at   the   very   least,     he   should   at   least   say   hello.        he   is   bred   far   to   well   for   anything   else.              ❝        something   interesting   ?        ❞

The thud of rainwater on the roof is amplified when the door rattles open —- whoever enters brings with him a breath of cold and the gray mist of England’s intemperate spring. Meric draws his coat closer around his chest, fingers flattening fluttering pages back. A verbal spell reignites the snuffed candle by which he reads ancient pages. He can tell from the lull in conversation that whoever entered the proprietorship is worth a spell of reverence or even fear. In this level of hell, it cold be anyone —- he doesn’t expect Regulus.

His footfalls announce his arrival first. A rhythmic heartbeat that gives weight to the symphony of bar stools dragging across the scarred wooden floor, the thrum of indistinct conversation, the clink of glasses raised in salute. Keen ears zero in and Meric lifts his head to receive the inquiry.

“Were it uninteresting, do you suspect I’d be poring over it?” His humor is sharp, a needle’s point, but he expects it won’t be lost on Regulus. “It’s a grimoire,” he expounds, flipping through the pages as his lungs expel a sigh. “Found in a lockbox in the dregs of the Norwegian Sea.” He narrows his eyes to decipher the reaction this information instigates. 

      he's  engulfed  by  shadow,  the  scintilla  of  clandestine  gloom  embracing  his  silhouette  and  that  of  the  pallid  woman  opposite  him.  i  hear  he’s  in  AZKABAN,  she  rasps.  and  the  twisted  witch  is  correct  in  her  rumored  hypothesis.  her  cracked  vocalization  implores  him  to  listen,  have  you  seen  him,  RABASTAN  ?  and  he  reminisces  aloud:  ❛  of  course  i  have,  ❜  his  unsanctioned  company  lifts  a  sharp  brow  as  she  awaits  the  finality  of  his  affirmation,  ❛  i  put  him  there.  ❜  there’s  a  formidable  hiss  –  the  creature’s  a  banshee;  the  beloved  of  an  incarcerated  lover.  ❛  and  if  you  want  him  out,  ❜  he  torments,  ❛  you’ll  do  something  for  me.  ❜

     when  the  blackmailed  departs,  he’s  left  with  a  curled  lip  and  saccharine  vengeance.  lithe  legs  are  crossed  at  the  ankle,  black  heel  atop  a  table  that,  if  you  hold  beneath  sharp  scrutiny,  is  speckled  by  vermilion  flecks.  from  his  surveillant  corner,  he  witnesses  THE  DARK  LORD’S  favored  wolf  deal  forbidden  wares.  a  hawker  is  discharged,  and  the  younger  DEATH  EATER  descends.  he  dematerializes  within  a  translucent  spell,  then  emerges,  an  apparition  encasing  the  same  slackened  form.  his  spine  is  met  by  ashen  wood,  legs  once  again  propped  by  a  vandalized  table.

      his  peripheral  seizes  the  perception  of  envious  grifters.  lips  purse,  ❛  what  is  it  you  possess  this  time  that  men  plan  to  discard  your  body  in  an  alley  for  ?  ❜  

Nary a ripple descends the spiral staircase of his spine when Rabastan appears before him —- his willowy frame encased in the arms of groaning driftwood, impossibly long legs traversing the whole length of the two-person table. Meric hadn’t known of the younger Lestrange’s presence and, had he, he might have conducted the seedy business at another, more shrouded locale. Out of his sight. The dark caverns snaking through his fractured foundation are endless, and this one runs deep. He is a distributor of the devil’s most vile instruments, a merchant of death —- how does Rabastan see him?

The grimoire is wrapped in doe skins and tucked into the breast of his leather coat. It doesn’t curb the lingering glowers from shadowy corners of the room, but the tension disperses like winged phantoms. His focus on the younger man opposite is uninterrupted. 

“A question with many answers.” His family vault at Gringotts is one. “Then again, some men would kill me for the pleasure alone,” he muses, fingers slipping around his whiskey glass to avoid the lure of settling elsewhere. “But I’ll not be visiting any alleys this night. Not with you, especially.” Hazel eyes are a vagrant woodland and they call to the wayward wolf, but his black eyes do not hold the gaze.

BLACK TOURMALINE – that was the hue bellatrix’s gown. it was antique and scruffy like a city  forgotten forgotten by time. there were burns where the silk of the skirt ended, and if one were to shine a light near it, they’d be surprised to see how many holes and battle scars it displayed with admirable pride. the color was the same as that of mostly everyone else’s attire, and her features were being garnished by the same hungry, wicked expression. however, voices ceased their silent slumber when she walked past their holders, and suddenly, her damaged garment weighed twice as much, now carrying the gazes thrust upon her —- even in the places where she belonged in the most, bellatrix black found herself standing out among everyone in the room.

   once had someone told bellatrix that ‘ one could never go back to their home, yet they could not abandon it either. ’ the fact she was present & inside this seedy establishment was not unusual ( at least, not to her. ) she had grown up in amidst a somewhat similar feeling, in a place that had received nothing but the sun’s indifference, where the lonely marble aisles were warmer than her own mother’s embrace & where a child had been turned into a monster ;  nowadays, these spots were frequented only by the most tenebrously peculiar minds, hands almost as bloody as hers, belonging to those who had been on the verge of transforming from people into corpses on so many occassions. these were people whose gods had abandoned them long ago  ——– the feeling that flooded her as she’d stepped inside didn’t stretch too far off what she’d become accustomed to. this was a ‘ home away from home ’ of sorts —- not some reeking pub with air thicker than oil, no, it was more than that ; it was the SHADOWS. 

    the woman allows herself to lean forward, the famous mane of dark curls covering almost half of her features. “ what a PRETTY, pretty thing, ” words slipped through her smile, followed by a soft yet chilling chuckle. every syllable was laced with mischievous charm. “ wonder how hard it was for you to get that… and for how much you’re willing to hand  it  out. ”

The room stills as if to make room for the whisper of Bellatrix’s skirts on the bowing, wooden floors. Witches and wizards lean toward the magnetic maelstrom that moves through the room —- she reflects no light; she is absolute dark and the silence that follows her is at the deathly end of gloaming. Meric sees in her the sort of madness he recognizes in himself, only hers is less tethered and unapologetic. Hers is the unfurling of spidery roots from the loam; his is dry and atrophied and waiting in the veil of night. In her manic gaze, he sees the same endless, wallpapered corridors whence he came. Her tinkling laughter is a promise of unbridled desecration and it’s such a familiar melody —- one that harkens back to his muted childhood and the privation of warmth and love others might find in such a lockbox.

So extensive is his damage that he finds great comfort in her nearness.

When she leans forward, her tousled hair veiling the contours of her face but not the Cheshire bow of her smile, Meric does not tuck the grimoire away. Instead, he simply leans back, regards her in her bedraggled gown —- she’s a riddle he’s too perplexed by to solve. She is somehow baleful, her sing-song words cloyingly sweet, as she marvels at his pilfered prize.

“Like most pretty things, it’s also deadly.” His fingers run over the porous pages blessed with a dead witch’s benediction. What arrogance it must have taken for her to keep words alive when faced with a burning stake. Did she think she would be back to claim them?