Regulus Black aka Nilam Deuil

“My problem is what are you doing with those things?” Dorcas retorted, continuing to trail Nilam through the upstairs hallways. Yes, she was a member of the Order and yes she had of course been invited to the party – they all had been, at least as far as Dorcas knew, from inner circle to information courier. She had a feeling that Mundungus Fletcher was going to turn up at any moment – but apparently they didn’t need Mundungus; someone else was taking care of the prerequisite pilfering…probably.

She wasn’t entirely sure; Nilam was being very open about what she was grabbing, which didn’t seem like the behavior of a thief – but if she wasn’t stealing, what was she doing? On the other hand, how stupid would the witch have to be to steal from the Potter Estate tonight, when it was full of guests. If she’d really wanted to rob the place, she could have done so any day; it wasn’t as though anybody kept a particularly close eye on anyone else in the Order (except Mundungus, for obvious reasons) to stop them making off with the silver…or whatever it was Nilam was collecting.

Nilam finally stopped, but only for a moment and not in the way Dorcas had hoped. She scowled and retorted, “If holding my hand will stop you taking things that don’t belong to you, it’s a sacrifice I’d be willing to make!” Dorcas didn’t want to jump to the wrong conclusion or to unkindly prejudge someone new to the Order the way people did her, but it was hard to see another explanation for Nilam’s actions.

She desperately wanted to, though – because what would she do if one didn’t present itself? Draw her wand on Nilam? The last thing Dorcas wanted to do was start a fight with another Order member, especially over a situation she wasn’t sure she understood. Run to James and tattle? That possibility seemed almost less palatable than the fighting. “What are you up to?”

“They do belong to me!” That was not exactly true but they were a family heirloom...that had to count for something.

If Niliam was a Black...and she wasn’t. That was also a problem but Regulus was trying not to twist the names around her head too much. She squared her shoulders, “I’m being a good guest, that’s what I am doing.”

What would be a distraction... Well, Regulus thought hand-holding was perhaps the most distracting, uncomfortable thing in the world. If Dorcas Meadows was going to lean into that line of questioning, Regulus Black was going to do it. 

“Here.” She shoved her hand in Dorcas’ like that was at all a normal thing to do, like it didn’t make her skin crawl with the feeling of no, absolutely not, and then she tugged. “You are worse than a Lestrange and now everyone is staring for no good reason.”

Choices: try to throw Doracs Meadows over a banister... or make a deal.

When you had nothing to deal with.

The thing with Divination was that Edgar did believe in it. Where he came from, Witches were granted positions and powers entirely different than here, and with that came a certain respect for the arts of the heart. The arts that required intuition, faith and an eye for nuance, all things the almost mechanical magic of patriarchal Great Britain seemed blind to at times.

However, at the latest during his final Divination exam at Hogwarts, he had come to terms that one couldn’t force the stars to communicate with you. He was more than aware that most Diviners were playing their clients for fools – in the worst case even themselves. That as for most arts, one couldn’t just demand it into existence by sheer will, but needed a certain type of affinity for it. Needed patience, trust and a lot of … muse.

Nevertheless, perhaps because he believed in its existence, perhaps because he knew it was all made up, he found particular pleasure in listening to people’s interpretation of their cards, runes or, in this case, water. An act. But an artistic act. And what did Edgar love more than the arts?

“And here I was, just last week, musing how I’d probably turn into a ghost and never really die…” His elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand, his fingers lightly touching his lips. Lips that were curling now, slightly, and the smile peeked past his fingers as he raised his gaze from the water up to Nilam. “Oh, please, don’t hold back, I need all the details.”

Nilam paused--which was a feat for her. She was so often moving, even if it was just her fingers in the hem of her robes or a steady tap against her thighs. She had been expecting dismay or annoyance--both of those would have been delightful to respond to. She was used to anger, too, and what else should she have expected from one of the few people who saw this face and knew, for a fact, it was fake? 

“We both know I will kill you.” She said, dipping her fingers back into the water and dragging them down. The obvious choice was to lean into the absurdity, the way they both knew who and what she was. “But let's see. Are you really as much of a coward as to go ghost?”

She didn’t think so. Or maybe he was and joining the Order was the best way to go ahead and get it over with. She sort of thought that was a bit daft but, then, survival always seemed more important. Just a little longer, she thought--but for what? Nothing. Not really. Still, a little bit longer...

There’s a hand in the water. The thought slid unbidden between her temples and Nilam tried to course correct, thinking carefully: There’s a hand in that bowl. But the water churned to her eyes and when she closed them she thought she heard a staccato drip along a wall she couldn’t feel.

She opened her eyes a moment later, suddenly intently aware of the chair, the soft roar of pedestrians nearby. 

Sometimes you are trying to figure out something interesting for backstory (or a current plot) and you just can’t figure it out with the two characters. Or you can, but its hard to explain what’s interesting about it. Whatever. This is a headcanon starter which is intended for building block headcanons based on two characters. Some are trope plots others are statements indicative of a moment or experience with the other character.

These can also double as fic prompts.

IF YOU WANT A SURPRISE HERE’S A RANDOM NUMBER GENERATOR. THERE ARE 36 OPTIONS.

Gideon’s flat in London November 21st, 1981, sometime after midnight

When the first perimeter alarm went off Gideon thought one of the cats had somehow managed to get out and triggered the spell. But when he looked up from where he was scribbling into his notebook both Perdita and Mortimer where sleeping curled up in the armchair by the window, getting along for once.

When the second one went off Gideon had shoved his notebook into the hidden drawer of his desk and his wand at the ready before the signal chime of the spell had fully died down.

It wasn’t unusual for those within the Order who knew where he lived to pay him a visit. What was unusual was the lack of notice before the visit. Normally his visitors would send him a message at least a few minutes before turning up on his doorstep. It was common precaution these days, to ensure one wouldn’t be hexed upon entering someone else’s property. Some people had their fence gates triple-cursed out of fear of an attack. Whoever had just passed his perimeter could count themselves lucky that he’d only installed a few alert spells and nothing worse.

A sudden rapid knock at the front door broke the silence, just as Gideon entered the hallway. He froze, wand lifted and ready to fire.

Fucking muggles.

“I hope to Christ you have fireplace. You do, don’t you?” Connor barged in the moment the door gave way, thinking about all the ways Caradoc was going to read him the riot but at least it was familiar. If Gideon had a fireplace, anyway.  Every self-respecting wizard did, but this was muggle London and Connor swore there were fewer and fewer flats with them. “Or an owl I can borrow, yeah. That’d be fine.”

That’d do, too, unless Caradoc was asleep. Unless Gideon made a bigger deal out of this than need be. Maybe he’d owl Antonin? Meet him ... not here. Somewhere else. That’d be good.

Connor was good at loud and in-your-face. He did it every night under the safe lights of Ganymede. He loved the look here that hid everything else. 

Archie was having a rough day. He’d just about had it with the way everyone was going on about the attack at the Ministry. After a day of going back and forth between tense Ministry workers wondering if this was some form of terrorist attack and the goblins grumbling on about how this would effect their business. It wasn’t as though anyone died at the event –though he had heard about the poor bloke from the Prophet who had lost a hand– so he didn’t understand all the fuss.

So, Archie decided to go about the best way to de-stress which would be a quick trip to Ganymede and have a drink, maybe have a chat with somebody. He winked to familiar faces and headed to the bar, sliding onto a stool and checking for the bartender. He glanced around humming with the familiar music that played.

When spoken to Archie startled, swiveling his head to catch the eye of the person. A tight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth seeing it was Connor. “Sorry, Con, I just clocked out. Working on leaving it in the office, y’know?” He sighed, resting his chin in his hand. “How’ve you been? Busy day?”

“Not as busy as yours.” Connor reached over to touch his face. “Hmm, yes, looks like a bit more scruff then usual. You know, you’d cut off ten years if you shaved.”

It wasn’t too much trouble to turn from the bar to mix up a drink--it only seemed right to make a Bend Over Umbridge, too, even though clearly Archie was not here for any orgy order purposes. “I hope you want a bit of pink in your life. Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ll make it strong enough that you forget at least a little of your day.”

He might have winked--but Connor winked at everyone and especially at those who had been at school with him. There was just something so strangely delightful in seeing them again and again... 

And, well, something a little funny about it. All those expectations heaped on poor little rich people and, yet, where did they end up? Connor’s bar.

Or not his bar, but close enough. “What's on your docket for tonight, then, hm?”

@goodgollymolly​

Ganymede was possibly the only place Caradoc could go to have a drink, these days. For one, he trusted Connor enough to get wasted in front of him – he’d never woken up anywhere too weird after passing out there, so he counted that as a win. And besides that, the place was fantastically hidden and mysterious enough to allow him a good time.

He had a reputation to keep with the others, he couldn’t just go passing out in any bar where someone from the Order could see him. Do you think Dorcas would ever listen to another word he said if she knew how wasted he was willing to get? No!

And Merlin knew he needed to drink after this week. He deserved a drink. Things had been so chaotic; usually he had an easier time letting go of past issues and focusing on the present, but this one had done a number on his head. 

Which was his plausible excuse for losing count on how many drinks he’d had already. “Anyway, so I’m calling the one with the freckles on his nose Spots, now, so I guess I’m a fucking official cat dad or whatever,” he said, his speech already slurred. He’d probably told Connor this a thousand times already. There wasn’t much his drunk brain could come up with, to be fair. He brought his glass up to his lips for a sip, and only then realized it was empty. “Hey, oh no, fill me up again.”

He tipped what was left in Caradoc’s current glass all over the floor. “Oh no, such a travesty. It’s all gone.”

Honestly, Connor had very little room to speak about drinking too much. On any given night he had at least one drink if not several and if he hadn’t drug himself (or been drug) up to his room at the top of the stairs more then a few times a week, well, he’d be a liar.

He was already a liar. So that proved the point. Maybe. He had gotten off track in his own head and tilting his friend's face between his fingers this way and that.

Business as usual. For the Dissendium Task Force, anyway. Remus had been… well, shocked sounded strong, didn’t it, but he was, hearing that the Ganymede Club had become something of a halfway house for wix on the run from the Dark Lord. He was hardly the usual clientele - it was a nice place, after all, nice enough to spark a few pureblooded scandals - but he’d heard stories. Hadn’t everyone? Didn’t seem the sort of establishment that would mix well with hiding refugees. 

But, that made it perfect. Didn’t it? 

Perfectly too fucking much, for Remus, with the moon hanging heavier by the day. It took every measure of self-control he had to stay stiffly put at the bar, holding in every restless twitch, trying not to grimace when the music slid a little too high. Just had to wait. A little longer. They had a contact, he’d been told. A contact that would find him. Like as not. That’s what they said; they’ll find you, like as not. The fuck did that even mean? 

… this? It took work not to flinch, hard, as someone spoke at him. Remus glanced over, then down to the glass of water he’d been nursing. Then to the breast pocket of his jacket, where he’d tucked a white hanky, as instructed. Security and all; there had to be signs. Did they have to be so daft, though? “Afraid so,” he replied, just loud enough to be heard. And… raised a hand, half-heartedly, for the bartender. White hanky, and this - this bloody drink, he was supposed to order. That was the password. Remus drained his glass, wishing it had been something stronger, and winced through it. “A, ah… a Bend Over Umbridge.” Bloody hell. That couldn’t be real. “Please.” As the bartender sidled off, he snapped out a cigarette, in need. This night was too long, already. 

Connor slid a hand along the guy’s shoulder, taking a general look at his wrist, back pocket, shoulder pock--yes, there it was.

Not quite what he was looking for but close enough for an order member who truly didn’t know the code.   “Ah, so it is work. Umbridge is always the hardest to get to bend over.” 

He flashed two fingers at the bartender with a smile and sat down next to him, “Come on, cheer up, you’ll get the girls soon enough... if that's really what you’re looking for.”

Fabian had never gotten this far before. 

He had just finished a long shift on the Knight Bus and, as luck would have it, his last stop had been Ganymede’s. He’d never been inside before. He’d dropped people off, had a smoke outside, talked to the patrons, talked to the staff, but he’d never actually stepped through the door. 

Tonight Fabian had decided to tell himself whatever lie he needed to get himself inside. So when Connor stopped him, he froze like a deer in headlights. 

“Oh Connor, no no, I’m just trying to find the toilets, then I have to leave.” And that was the lie. He didn’t even need to go. He just needed any excuse to get inside and see the wonder, without having to admit he actually longed to be there. 

“Can you point me in the right direction?” No matter how appealing drowning in drink sounded right now, he was absolutely terrified, more scared than he’d been at the Ministry earlier in the week. 

Connor grinned--this wasn’t work. It couldn’t have been. Even the greenest of Members would be a little better about the location if it was work... granted, they’d be stiff in a different sort of way (and not at all a fun one!) but in for a penny. “I completely understand, of course, I also once wandered all the way out here looking simply for...toilets.”

He tried not to laugh. It wasn’t really fair of him to. Most people were a bit nervous about coming in--for a reason, for no reason at all. It was better to be kind but Connor had not been raised on kindness so he couldn’t quite pluck the amusement from his voice, “Honestly, settle. It’s just fine.”

“Almost?” Emma echoed. As he embellished on his comment, the polite smile turned into something a little more real. She had to admit, watching anyone go for a swim in the Ministry’s newest decoration would be a welcome distraction. 

“What would Lucius Malfoy know. He’s a vain git.” She said without thinking. Her hand flew to cover her mouth as her eyes widened beneath the gold filigree of her mask. She’d been hanging out with Dorcas too much. “I’m terribly sorry, I’ve forgotten myself.” She said softly, glancing around to make sure that no one other than Connor had heard. She couldn’t afford to lose her place in society altogether- not when it could be of use to the Order. Maybe a little. 

She cleared her throat, the soft, vacant smile plastered back on her face. “But it’s a welcome surprise. At least, for me. And I must say, I quite love this look. How did you manage to get the eyes to look that realistic?” She asked curiously. 

A tiny hint of the girl who had emerged for just a moment crept back into Emma’s eyes. “That sounds delightful. Did you have something in mind?”

“Please,” Connor couldn’t hide the delight in his voice or on his face, “Forget yourself again. Or always--I’m not exactly someone you have to worry about and anything that happens in my company...well, it’d be all on me, wouldn’t it?”

He fluttered his free hand, pleased at her assessment of his costume, “Muggle Make up, of course, with a few sealing charms--have to have those, you never know how long a party will go on for ...and the temperature.” He sipped his drink, turning his attention rapidly to her next question,  “Well, that depends. Do you want it to be only you thats involved or others?”

There were so many options... and absolutely none of them had a single thing to do with the Order being around. By comparison, his plans were positively innocent. Spiking the punch. Fraternizing more openly with someone he shouldn’t... or even running into Lucius Malfoy on purpose wouldn’t be amiss.