* p a r i a h s

MARCUS GREENGRASS. intro. pinterest. stats. playlist. 

FLAVIA SCRIGMGEOUR.  intro. pinterest. stats. playlist.

she really, really wants to take an almost CLINICAL approach to all of this. she’d imagined the whole thing and in her run through, she had managed to maintain her newfound frostiness - she got in, she got out, she did it all with an indifference to him & to this place, which was no longer her place. she had no right to care about who’d been through the door before her or why his couch seemed pushed five inches to the right, and she’d thought that now her hurt had subsided enough to see the mess of them from the outside of the vacuum, she’d be able to keep up the act of detachment. the joke was on her, really. it only took the long beat between her question and his response for her to break guideline number one, set before arrival - don’t even touch anything. in spite of herself, she uses her hip to push the couch back into place.

she’s not even surprised by his answer. it’s pretty typical of him, and the nicest she’s been so far is when she heaves a sigh mid his explanation and tries cut him off before the end of ‘others’, “please, don’t. it doesn’t matter, i can do it myself.” she almost tells him - has the words on the tip of her tongue - that he just has to stay out of her way, but however infuriating it is, she can’t make herself do it. guideline number two - spend as little time in his presence as possible - is going out the window too, it seems, and he seems intent on making it even easier to do. one of them needs to say no. one of them has to be the one to cut them both free of this shit, but after a long moment of just blinking back at him, luca decides there isn’t much of a rush. “if we’re doing this-” by this, she now means it all. the collection of her things, the ‘catch up’. she can’t help but resign herself to it. “i think you can spare me a drop of something a bit stronger than tea.” 

He watches her as she moves through their previously shared space, feeling a bit like an intruder. She looks like she belongs there. It just about takes his breath away to be here with her, again. He’s at a loss for word (an usual circumstance). She had made it a home, and he had burned it down. And while she moved out and on, he spent his days trying to find something  worthwhile in the ashes. The couch returned to it’s rightful place and it took a surprising dose of willpower not to push it back those few inches. If he let’s her in like that, let’s her tidy his mess up, he’ll never let her leave. Setting her free is about the only selfless decision he’s ever made, though he lacks the self-recognition to make such a realization. He doesn’t need to be told twice to bring out a harder drink. His cabinet contains many varieties, each distillation offering a different intoxication. He opts for a clear liquor, returning with a handle of vodka and two glasses. It’s not his most expensive bottle, but it’s a far cry from rubbing alcohol - perfectly ideal for day-drinking with an ex-fiancé. He sets the glasses down on a rarely used dining table. He sees no point in eating in these days, when he has nothing but his own thoughts to occupy him. If he were to open a cabinet and find his pots and pans had cobwebs on them, he wouldn’t so much as bat an eye. Perhaps he should ask Luca if she wants them. Let her take away any semblance of civility.  With a wave of his wand, each glass is chilled to perfect. He fills them, giving himself about a shots-worth more than Luca, and finds his voice just in time to ask: “Can you handle it straight, or should I get you a chaser?” 

Admittedly, the female line rings false in Pandora’s ears. Not that Flavia’s words are strictly untrue, but rather that it feels like such a gimmicky line to push. She all but winces, brows contracting a bit on her forehead as she offers the smallest nod in response. And then they get into the gritty of it and her hands once again busy themselves with moving things–twisting her wedding ring, running through her hair, fidgeting with her cup on the table. “I’d like to see my ex-husband removed from his position, you understand, because I think he… isn’t serving all of our interests to the best of his ability, I suppose. But public support is also a tricky thing. Perhaps give me some time to think about it?” 

Flavia’s smile does not falter as Pandora expresses her hesitancy. If there’s one thing Flavia has, it’s a poker face. She does her best to mask her disappointment. “Of course, please take all the time you need. If it comes down, private support alone will be more than enough.” It’s a lie, but it’s one she feels compelled to tell. She’s not trying to scare Pandora away. Quite the opposite. She fears she has pushed too far. She risks losing vital support.  “Is there anything I can do for you? Any issues you hope I address that perhaps I have not spoken on? Your issues are my issues.”

“You’re quite keen on flattery,” Rhea says with an absurd amount of amusement, withdrawing her hand from his space and letting it fall to her side. It’s not long before her hands find each other again and link fingers behind her back. This game is quite fun, she has to admit. “Tell me, what is it you’re looking to get out of this, hmm?” 

"Guilty as charged,” he shrugs, feigning bashfulness. His hand lingers for a moment, as if he’s hoping she’ll change her mind and hand hers over once again. When he finally relaxes it, he slips it into a front pocket. He stands up straighter. As if he’s a proper gentleman. Stilling smiling, he continues speaking. “Your name, for a start.” 

knowing she had nothing better to do except man the shop for the day until she got off, knox shrugged, “then i suppose i’ll go. why not?” perhaps a breather was exactly what she needed as the weeks had slowly paved on. it had left her stressed and marcus, as it seems, looked like the perfect stress reliever. plus if she said no, knox would otherwise spend the rest of her night drinking alone in her quaint apartment. which she certainly wasn’t in the mood for. with a mischievous smirk, she added, “i’ll even wear my best dress.”

"You suppose you’ll go?” He shakes his head, snickers to himself. “You’re killing me here, darling. I’m wounded. Seriously!” There’s genuine earnest in his voice. It would be pleasurable for her to show some more enthusiasm, flattering even. But he enjoys a bit of a chase. Enjoys having to work for it. Whether her displays of reluctance were authentic or a game, it didn’t matter. It was enough. “Clothing is optional, for what it’s worth.” He smirks. “What time should I pick you up?”

Two thoughts emerge in Pandora’s mind in that moment, fighting for dominance. One, an amused and laughable “Neither am I”, rolling it off easy, playing the part. The other, a soft and earnest “It wasn’t all bad”, not a lie at all, but not quite the truth either. It wasn’t all bad, sure, but it wasn’t good enough. She settles for the first. “Neither am I, if I’m being honest.” The witch leans back a bit as she considers the question, taking a slow sip of her drink as she ponders. It’s a fair thought–to evaluate the running parties–or at least to ask Pandora to do it, though she doesn’t have the most political mind either. “Well he’s been a bit quiet during all this, hasn’t he?” She shrugs, looks down at her hands for a moment and then back at her friend. “I think she’s tenacious, but a bit unsure of what parts to play as of yet… which angles to push. Whereas Anton’s sort of locked in on that for himself and is running with it. Whether his certainty is enough to push back her lack of it… who knows?” 

Andromeda raises her glass of water for a mock toast. “Here’s to moving on.” She takes a sip from the glass and shares an understanding smile with Pandora. Their experiences are different on paper, sure. But the experience of walking away from a home, from an entire life, no matter how terrible or ill-fitting, is not one many share. Andromeda doesn’t know the details. She doesn’t need to. She feels a kindred to Pandora, and anyone else who has ever had to walk out. “Now that you mention it, yes. He has been quiet. Wonder how long that’ll stick,” she laughs. “I’m not sure what I make of her. All politicians are the same at the end of the day, aren’t they? Merlin, I hate politics.” Her laughter grows at the absurdity of it all. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to go home.” 

Otto is never, not once, amused by his rambling. On anyone else, maybe it would have been charming, or even just a bit amusing, but on Marcus, it’s just fucking annoying. She’s used to that, in all fairness, her encounters with him–even when he and Luca were together–tended to lean in the “less than stellar” category. Because he’s selfish and maybe Otto is too, but either way, they tend to butt heads over shit like this. But then he goes and drops the line about Luca–about trying to outdo Luca, even–as if that was possible to begin with, and Otto’s amusement-less face drops to outright stoicism. “See it’s comments like that that prove to me you never gave a shit about her to start with. Predictable, but disappointing.”

Something in him deflates. His ego, perhaps. Have the lights in the room brightened? Did the temperature just spike? He feels ill. And suddenly quite irate. He makes a fist, clenches, releases, repeats. At least three times. “Lighten up a bit, kid. It’s a joke.” He tilts his head back and finishes his drink in one go. It does nothing to ease his discomfort, merely leaving him with a bitter aftertaste. He considers walking away, even makes a motion to turn around and leave, but he finds himself anchored to the spot. “You’re wrong. About me. You have no idea what I feel.” Most days, Marcus doesn’t even know what he feels. 

in     spite     of     herself     ,     she     laughs     with     flavia          ;          the     tension     along     the     rigid     lines     of     her     spine     loosen     with     it     ,     like     this     laughter     is     what     she     needs     .          “          twenty     -     six     .          ”          it’s     a     minor     correction     ,     lacking     her     usual     stringency     .          “          i     can     only     IMAGINE     what     you’ve     seen          &          done     .          ”          she     appreciates     the     way     flavia     doesn’t     speak     down          ;          it’s     a     conversation     between     𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚜     ,     for     what     it’s     worth     .          “          ministers     come     and     go     ,     i     suppose     .     it’s     what     they     do     that     matters     .          ”          (          she     knows     that     better     than     most     .          )

“          i     agree     with     you     there     ,     we     need     better     .          ”          (          they’ve     needed     better     since     she     was     eleven     ,     crying     in     a     bathroom     over     words     that     felt     like     wounds     /     fighting     the     beginnings     of     a     war     and     too     fucking     young     to     understand     its     nuances     /     left     to     deal     with     the     𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆     impact     of     it     .          )          “          for     all     intents     and     purposes     ,     i     think     you     have     the     potential     to     be     better     .     you’ve     got     the     experience     ,     that’s     for     sure     .          ”          she’d     memorised     scrimgeour’s     accomplishments     the     moment     she     decided     to     drop     by     ,     easily     reached     for     at     a     moment’s     notice     if     she’d     come     into     contact     with     her     .     encyclopedic     memory     comes     in     handy     at     times     like     this          !          “          i     don’t          —     -          ”          hermione     picks     her     words     carefully     ,     slowly          &          HEAVY     with     meaning          —     -          “          i     don’t     doubt     your     ability     ,     not     for     a     second     .     i     doubt     your     influence          &          its     reaches     .          ”

“Ah, twenty-six. A good age,” she offers as if she remembers much good of the age. Her twenties were all long hours and sleep deprivation. She finds herself temporarily suffering from a maternal urge to ask if Hermione is taking care of herself, getting plenty of rest, drinking water. It’s a fleeting feeling, it passes without consequence.

“There’s no point in playing coy here. My opponent has some powerful friends. Their influence, their reach, far outweighs my own. It’s why your support would be so meaningful to this campaign. You have a broader reach, and a hell of a lot of influence. You can bring the young crowd, the revolutionaries,” Flavia grins, hoping her call to action reads as inspirational rather than desperate.  “I do not doubt my abilities to serve as the minister our country desperately needs. I just need a little help getting there. I would love to have you as an advisor, not only to this campaign but to my office once I’m elected. Your reputation precedes you, Ms. Granger. I see a lot of my younger self in you.” 

His intent was to enjoy a solitary, solemn night alone — mourning his youth (damn those grey hairs) and his still-plentiful-but-dwindling savings (damn his father for expecting more of him).  But Marcus is always open to a change of plans, priding himself on his (perceived) ability to go with the flow. So  when he spots Emma just a few seats away, he decides that since misery loves company, he best not drink alone. He knows her, perhaps a bit vaguely, from her work and his love of quidditch, events, and events centered on quidditch.  And Marcus has long held onto the belief that all Slytherin alum maintain a certain bond, allowing them to bypass any awkwardness, catapulting them from acquaintances to friends. He scoots over a few seats, finding himself next to her.  “May I buy you a drink, Ms. Vanity?” 

It’s nearing the end of her shift, a fact she feels in each step, her hips and shins aching with exhaustion. She’s caught up on rounds, charts are all sorted, orderlies aware of their responsibilities prior to the shift change. She considers, for a moment, making herself a cup of tea and finding a place to hide away for remaining half hour. It’s a slow day, and if she weren’t so committed to her work, it would be permissible. But a familiar face ends the line of thought. She approaches their bedside, her smile feeling as tired as her legs. “Oh dear. What have you done now?”

Flavia gracefully sits in the open seat across from Dennis, flipping her notebook open to a fresh page. She’s a bit old fashion when it comes to her campaign. She wants to know the volunteers personally. She wants to understand them and their talents - to better wield them for her gain, naturally. “Mr. Creevey, how nice it is to meet you. Our prospective partnership thrills me, I assure you. Volunteers such as yourself make it possible for me to get my message out. I would love to know more about you - your interests, that is. How do you see yourself fitting into this campaign?”

A dark cloud looms over Marcus’s head. He sits, his pint untouched, studying his own reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall just past the bar. Just this morning, he had found a singular gray hair atop his head. Could it be that the impossible was happening? That he was...aging? Oh, Merlin help him if he ever starts looking like his father. He must snap himself out of this downward spiral. He turns his head to the left, taps the shoulder of the nearest patron. “Hey. You. You’re young. Younger, that is.” He leans in. “Do you know what the hell an e-boy is? Is that aesthetic something ladies find attractive? ” 

their     pride     isn’t     something     easily     damaged     ,     but     calling     in     sick     always     does     it          ;          there’s     no     shame     in     admitting     your     limits     ,     they     can     practically     𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛     their     supervisor     cooing     saccharine     pleasantries     down     the     phone     .          (          for     so     long     ,     they’ve     taken     twisted     satisfaction     in     knowing     the     EXACT     demarcation     of     their     boundaries          &          pushing     past     anyway          ;          damaging     habits     have     𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐓     𝐔𝐏     on     astoria     ,     though     ,          &          their     newfound     dependence     on     marcus     is     frustrating     evidence     of     that     fact     .          )

“          coming          !          ”          their     trill     comes     before     heavy     wooden     door     swings     open     ,     only     to     reveal     that     they’ve     swaddled     themselves     in     a     thick     woolen     blanket     .          “          you’re     RIGHT     in     time     ,     i’ve     run     out     of     last     time’s     .     come     in     ,     i’ve     only     just     boiled     the     kettle     .          ”          wan     smile     toys     with     the     corners     of     a     paled     mouth          —     -          despite     the     distance     between     visits     ,     astoria     is     𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒     pleased     to     see     their     brother     .     socked     steps     pad     back     down     the     hall     before     he’s     even     had     the     chance     to     step     inside          !          “          i     feel     rotten     today     ,     prob’ly     all     the     overtime     from     the     holidays     .     didn’t     do     me     any     good     ,     really     .          ”

The singular chink in Marcus’s armor is, and has been for as long as he can remember, his youngest sibling. Astoria is the anchor  — nay, the lighthouse that beckons him home time and time again. His travels have taken him far and wide, but he returns to England for them. He travels, sometimes, for them as well. Hoping that his journeys will take him to a cure that’s never been promised. The rest of the family survives well enough without him,  as he does without them. But there’s an understanding between him and Astoria. A softness he has shown no one else. 

He follows her into the house. His voice wavers with concern. "Why all the overtime? Are you low on funds?” Marcus works only to fill his pockets during his bouts of forgoing contact with his father. He wishes Astoria would not work. He would support them. Well, he would get his father to support them. It’s not like he has anything better to do with his wealth. “Are you resting enough? Don’t bother answering that, I already know my answer.” He crosses his arms, glares at them as Astoria is a child about to be put in time out. “You need to take things easy.” 

The  mere  mention  of  nuptials  is  enough  to  trigger  an  actual  wince,   expression  momentarily  becoming  pained.   It’s  all  Marcus  has  heard  about  since  that  big,  bold  headline  and  while  being  the  centre  of  attention  doesn’t  completely  suck    (   neither  did  the  engagement  present  Aunt  Dallia  sent  in  the  form  of  a  beautifully - aged  bourbon   ) ,    he’s  getting  a  little  tired  of  hearing  about  the  same,  old  thing.   Especially  when  that  thing  is  the  imminent  downfall  of  his  freedom.          ‘    To  be  honest,  mate,  I’ve  been  trying  not  to  think  about  it  too  hard.    ’          Possibly  an  odd  attitude  for  a  soon - to - be  groom  to  be  displaying.  How  fortunate  his  parents  aren’t  around  to  point  it  out  with  scathing  looks  and  a  stern  reminder  that  his  inheritance  is  dependent  on  this  little  shindig.     —     Grimace  quickly  eases  into  a  huff  of  laughter  moments  later,   reaching  for  his  own  pint.          ‘    Now,  why  am  I  not  surprised  by  your  extensive  Seeker’s  Snatch  knowledge?   They’ll  be  dedicating  a  cocktail  to  you  in  no  time.    ’          Flint  can’t  pretend  the  image  of  a  stag  do  doesn’t  pique  his  interest,  however.   He  never  turns  down  a  party.          ‘    Reckon  I  deserve  something  slightly  classier  than  a  complimentary  buffet.   I’ll  be  breaking  the  hearts  of  thousands  after  all.   We  owe  it  to  them  to  mourn  their  loss  of  Witch  Weekly’s  Most  Eligible  Bachelor  in  style.    ’          Typical  Marcus.  He  wins  once  and  never  lets  the  world  forget  it.

There’s a curious sensation stirring deep in Marcus. The wedding talk has him thinking, against his will, of his own ill-fated nuptials. Something tight in his chest to compliment the sinking sensation in his core. What is this....regret? Remorse? Guilt? Whatever it is, he wants no part of it. Shake off those damn feelings, he focuses his full attention back on the festivities to plan.  “Bold of you to assume they haven’t already named one after me.” The elder Marcus winks, takes a sip of his pint, and let’s out a refreshed sigh. “Their loss is my gain—with you out of the picture, I’m a shoo-in for this year’s competition.” He considers sending an owl to the editor the following morning, in hopes of getting a head start on his campaign for the title. “It’s hard to fathom an affair classier than a complimentary buffet....something quidditch related, perhaps? Rent out a pitch, supply plenty of beer, find some pretty girls to cheer us on. That, or a candle-light vigil for your a freedom. What do yo think?”

of     all     the     things     lucius     malfoy     is     expecting     ,     andromeda     tonks     calling     out     his     name     isn’t     one     of     them     .          (          to     her     credit     ,     he’s     always     liked     her     the     most     of     narcissa’s     sisters          /          bellatrix     makes     no     secret     of     her     distaste     ,     but     he     does     his     best     to     𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡     her          &          her     rancor     .     andromeda     has     something     kinder     to     her     ,     something     he’s     not     quite     earned     .          )          “          andromeda     .     hello     .          ”          his     greeting     is     a     replica     of     hers     ,     same     frozen     tone     that     exists     as     proof     of     his     𝚂𝙷𝙾𝙲𝙺     .          “          you     look     well     .          ”

Andromeda fights to regain composure, mentally swatting away the pesky thoughts racing through her brain. She’s acutely aware of how public this meeting is, and while it is less than ideal the venue decreases the odds that she speak out of turn. Her posture improves tenfold as she clutches her handbag. Her tone is less icy, but still cool. “You look... about the same I would say.” She raises a single brow, her eyes daring him to make a move. 

As a child and a teenager, Tonks was often too hard and judgmental of her mother. Childbirth was the first changing tide in her view, then came the immeasurable loss. Loss tore open their hearts that time has just barely been able to heal them both, but they at least could find solace in each other. They have the relationship now that she wishes she wasn’t so stubborn back then to have.

At her words, Tonks ( with Teddy on her shoulders ) whips around with a look akin to someone who has just been told the worst news. “It would actually be a crime to both humanity and wizard-kind.” She extends an arm out. “By Merlin, woman - give it to me.”

“A crime? That’s a big dramatic, dear.” Andromeda frowns as she at reluctantly hands over the worn t-shirt. “Surely you have enough band tees to last you a lifetime, as is. Maybe it’s time to consider upgrading your wardrobing. I have a few blouses in my closet I no longer wear, and before you even think about rolling your eyes at me, they are quite fashionable. Pretty sure they’re considered vintage now. Eighties and nineties fashion is in, isn’t it?”

☆ﾟ*·ﾟ ATTENDING AN EVENT like this wasn’t something Katie expected, but she was curious, wanting to learn as much as she could. She didn’t necessarily understand politics, and wasn’t sure if she would, but that didn’t mean more couldn’t be learned. As she headed towards one of the cafes, she noticed quite a few people speaking to Flavia. Katie had never met her, and didn’t know much about her, but now, as she saw her sitting there, she was curious. As she reached the woman, and she gestured for her to sit down, Katie hesitated for a moment before sitting across from her. “I appreciate that. It’s kind, and I think that’s a good way to connect with your voters. I just want to make sure you’re taking care of the hospitals, and the kids. Those are the ones that are the most important. People need as much help as they can get, and sometimes, it seems like the government doesn’t really care.” Katie hoped she wasn’t coming across too strong or being rude in any way. She just worried too much for her own good. 

Flavia had been smiling and nodding her way through numerous conversations with disgruntled, dismayed, and occasionally distasteful members of the wix community. It seemed that she was now being gifted with a brief reprieve. A soft ball, at last. Babies, the elderly, the sick. Easy stuff. “Of course, of course. I completely agree.” She offered Katie a firm, sincere smile. “I would like to see continual, long-term investments in major wizarding hospitals as well as the smaller, potentially more accessible care facilities across the country. No one need come to all the way to London for excellent care. And for children, well, I agree that they need to be taken care of. I hope to oversee some major reforms in education and childhood welfare. But I would love to hear any ideas or suggestions you may have.”