ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ sᴇʀᴘᴇɴᴛ.

location: ministry of magic, at the gala date: may 5th 1979 open to all ! 

     it is with a sigh and a slight flourish that molly finally manages to brush past a small hoard of people en route to the refreshment table. shouldering her way through the scheming and powerful, she reflects on the fact that she had agreed to accompany her father ( dear old patriarch of the prewetts, a man who’s vehemently clung onto his position at the ministry despite all the political unrest as of late ) to the night’s event; her mother and brothers seemed to have no desire to wade in the political turmoil, so the responsibility fell to none other than molly herself. having to trade shifts at the hospital to make a gala she would much rather not attend but didn’t have the heart to turn down, molly stands in the thick of it all in pinchy shoes, quite unable to staunch the sinking feeling of regret. 

     she finds herself craning her neck around to look for arthur, maybe even moody, any sort of familiar face – no luck. molly resigns herself to piling the small plate in hand. “ at least the organizers had the sense to cater some good food and flowing drinks – i think everyone here could use a boost in spirit. ” 

      the  flick  of  serpent  tongues  expel  venomous  reform;  dual  candidates  are  treacherous  amidst  vermillion  seas (  he’d  rather  vote  a  muggle  into  office  and  mute  the  psychobabble  ).  he  cannot  --  bagnold  cannot  --  damn  every  species  in  which  strikes  her  as  homicidal,  and  he  lacks  the  ideology  to  lick  the  grime  from  yaxley’s  boot.  yet,  at  the  end  of  this  relentless  revolution,  they  are  expected  to  crown  the  lesser  evil  and  condemn  the  remaining  demon.  but  not  everyone  can  define  lesser.

molly  prewett  is  far  from  his  minuscule  sphere  of  camaraderie.  when  she  addresses  space  vacant  of  familiarity,  he’s  certain  that  he  is  not  the  wizard  she  expects  to  hail.  ❛  i  wouldn’t  call  it  sense,  ❜  he  interjects,  ❛  but  it’s  going  to  take  a  lot  of  firewhisky  to  get  the  majority  to  vote  for  either  candidate.  ❜

date: april 25th 1979 

location: ???

slender fingers peruse through the prophet held in her hands but truly only one section catches her eye – amidst the reports of terror and upheaval in recent events, the gossip column finds itself a frequent visitor in andromeda black. she spots names that intrigue her, “details” on family and acquaintances alike, bits of so-called information filed away in her mind for later investigation. dark eyes scan the list up and down, expression somewhere between perplexed and strangely amused. “ can you imagine making a living out of gossip, prying into people’s lives ? ” the query is posed with a slightly daring lilt, as though an invitation for whoever to jump in and defend or refute the apparent sightings. 

andromeda flips the page if only to appear interested in the other contents – quidditch statistics ( she’d only ever been halfway interested while in school, if only to bat eyes at players ! ), a report pertaining to her line of work that she decides to dwell on later; it is an issue for working andromeda. for now, she is settled in her social skin and abuzz with petty interest. unsurprisingly, she eventually flips back to the page entitled sightings by skeeter. andromeda knows it’s all stretched truths and embellishment ( for the most part ), meant to stir the pot and create friction drawn away from the war, entertainment for people who have nothing better to do than live vicariously through the scandalous lives of others. 

“ i might have to start looking over my shoulder more often. perhaps i may even need to double check the loo, the trash bin – ” out comes a laugh that is as sweet as it is biting, and a shake of the head, “ – skeeter is everywhere. ”

    the  hit  wizard  is  abstracted;  cerebral  intuition  targeting  the  prior  evening  of  anthracite  linens.  the  raven-tressed  witch’s  mouth  parts,  inquisitive  syllables  tumble  from  her  tongue,  and  he  fails  to  discern  them.  enchanted  teaspoon  twists  a  minuscule  whirlpool  in  black  tea,  drowns  a  cube  of  sugar  within  its  tart  vortex.  the  silver  utensil  sustains  its  spherical  evolution,  saccharine  particles  disintegrating,  spell  drifting  needlessly  onward.  sheets  warp  into  roughly  lain  kisses,  into  proclamations  that  linger  throughout  obsidian  hours.  the  elegant  vision  across  from  him  capsizes  a  page  --  peripheral  glimpses  an  embossed  headline  declaring  MURDER,  sprightly  debris  envelops  MISSING  witch.  elladora’s  misplaced  silhouette,  he  affirms,  lacks  death  eater  affiliation.

andromeda  black  pries  meric  mulciber  from  sinful  encephalon.  her  laugh,  deceivingly  honeyed,  startles  his  internal  confessional.  ❛  –  what ?  ❜  hazel  irises  focalize,  newfound  awareness  accompanies  the  column  of  current  perusal.  the  possessed  teaspoon  ceases  its  dizzying  motion.  ❛  shame  if  she  were  to  go  missing.  ❜  he  proffers  further,  ❛  if  i  knew  she  wouldn’t  be  so  bloody  thrilled  to  make  the  front  page,  i’d  see  it  happen.  ❜

          like  nefarious  spirit  ,   she  appears  as  if  summoned  by  the  wicked  underbelly  of  what  lays  deep  below  in  burning  fumes  .  an  elegance  to  how  femme  can  maintain  aura  of  pure  calamity  ,  villainous  doing  ,  with  sly  smirk  quirked  upon  plush  brims  .  sharp  ivories  hidden  behind  lacquered  lips  ,  always  ready  to  BITE  .  sneer  reads  beware  ,  a  menace  hides  behind  the  otherwise  picturesque  countenance  .  a  white  hot  fire  burns  beneath  crystal  hues  ,  she  is  as  shadowy  and  atramentous  as  what  her  eyes  bear  to  the  world  .  

pulled  from  the  tavern  of  hell  itself  ,  she  embarks  onto  short  journey  .  inhale  ,  exhale  .  shoulders  immediately  relax  .  often  tense  ,  given  state  of  occupation  and  state  of  turmoil  the  world  seems  to  be  tipping  towards  ,  simplicity  in  fresh  air  is  enough  to  tranquilize  in  the  slightest  .

she  clears  throat  to  capture  attention  ,  no  ill-meaning  sneaking  up  ,  she  knows  better  .  arid  scoff  leaves  her  lips  ,  brow  raising  in  tune  .   “   the  sulking  is  not  a  good  look  on  you  rab  .   ”   wicked  smirk  dresses  countenance  .     “    you  do  realize  there  are  other  places  you  could  get  firewhisky  right  ?   ”    

    his  comrade  is  a  corrupt  temptress,  but  aren’t  they  all  dosed with  roguish  charm  ?  both  hit  witch  and  wizard  forge  an  unnerving  duo  --  swift  to  stalk  and  swift  to  assassinate.  twins  they  aren’t;  neither  affixed  by  wombed  dna  or  ancestral  lineage  (  she  has  AMYCUS  for  such  binding  facets  ).  but  he’d  still  mourn  her  warring  expiry  --  her  cruel  snigger  and  taunting  attributes.  their  alliance  in  the  field  is  defined  by  this:  if  you  act  like  prey  they’ll  act  like  predators.

physique  slackens  upon  sanctioned  intrusion  --  this  is  not  someone  who  needs  prompted  of  the  brooding  LESTRANGE  bloodline.  stark  beaming  grins  are  scarce  and  atypical.  only  leering  smirks  paired  with  mischievous  simpers  tend  to  grace  petal-tinged  lips.  when  he  pivots  --  about-face  --  ALECTO  CARROW  is  presented  with  smiling  sparsity.  ❛  didn’t  know  you  specialized  in  what  looks  good  on  me,  lec.  ❜  hazel  vision  shadows  teasing  rhetoric,  towering  silhouette  leans  against  spell-bolted  entry.  ❛  my  flat  --  i’ve  had  enough  irritation  to  last  me  the  war.  ❜

ROUGH: existence.

HIDE: identity.

FOOLISH: voldemort.

SAD: youth.

HATE: absolute.

LIGHT: ephemeral.

DARK: ethereal.

MOTHER: murder.

FATHER: torture.

CHILD: suffering.

MARRIAGE: terminated.

LOVE: lie.

SOFT: kneazle.

PET: thestral.

DREAM: terror.

DIVORCE: sense.

WATER: submerge.

LOUD: silence.

ANNOUNCEMENT: death.

POWER: force.

FIGHT: conquer.

SMACK: dehumanization.

WHITE: pain.

SICK: scars.

KISS: sin.

HUB: flat.

HURT: guarded.

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.

“Don’t you have some other poor bastard to torment?”

     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.  ❜

The woman advanced with a proud yet careless stride, water from the puddles underneath the soles of her charcoal shoes splattering and moistening the edge of her black lace gown. a raspy chuckle stumbled out of tinted lips, bouncing about the street like a drunkward’s walk while her insides burned with joy. the woman with a void for a soul had little to no idea where she has headed – she rarely knew, especially around this hour. all that had unfolded before her that day was now a blurr – but the uncertainty was alluring. 

    she was alone, as she would expect to be, but not that it troubled her. as the dark witch made her way towards the seedy pub, the many silhouettes leaning against the walls of the equally-filthy establishments called and reached out – desperate attempts to catch her attention, she could tell. bellatrix found these people dull & tiring. whatever it was that left their mouths seemed to do so with the most extreme degree of confidence, being either too ludicrous or too boring for her to gift it her precious attention. finally, she was bathed by the warmth of streetlamp outside the white wyvern – for a moment, a satisfied grin danced across her lips. she stood behind the other, and so said smirk soon disappeared. chocolate eyes rapidly scanned the sign’s words. “ what a pity, ” she almost whispered in the other’s ear, her features projecting  an obviously fake grim expression. “ this is why imbeciles shouldn’t be allowed to run establishments like this one – only the most brainless forget to cover up their tracks, don’t you agree ? ” the raven-haired’s woman words were coated with the usual concotion of mischief and amusement, her mouth ultimately resting in a sly grin.

     she  spawns  blackholes  for  ingenuous  men  to  drown  in.  silk,  raven  tresses  deceive  and  mankind  asphyxiates  on  vermillion  ichor.  her  assessment  is  valid  --  the  white  wyvern’s  proprietors  have  vitally  collapsed.  what  surreptitious  conclaves  the  dark  lord  has  hosted  will  need  to  be  entombed  beneath  layers  of  ash  and  pumice.  to  be  seized  in  this  war  is  to  bite  a  cyanide  pill.  the  entrance  waived,  the  eldest  sister  is  granted  the  entirety  of  his  attention.  ❛  not  particularly  shocking,  ❜  he  asserts,  ❛  the  building  was  of  far  more  use  than  its  bloody  occupants.  ❜   he  expects  to  discover  rodolphus  skulking  in  the  shadows  behind  his  future  bride,  but  the  terra  is  merely  a  portrait  of  apparitions.  scraggly,  shrouded  limbs  pry  from  the  rearward  alley  --  they  seek  the  woman’s  exquisite  regard.  he’s  witnessed  homicidal  retaliation  for  much  less.  the  youngest  lestrange’s  cranium  inclines,  requesting  that  she  venture  hellish  corridors  alongside  him.  the  length  of  his  stride  diminishes  as  to  not  outpace  her,  and  he  accuses  through  a  teasing  tone:  ❛  where  have  you  left  my  dear  brother,  bella  ?  ❜

it’s anna koldings’ grimoire —- held together by a sliver of rotten deerskin, a few braids of hempen twine, and a primitive horse-shoe latch so rusted that it nearly turns to dust at his touch. it had been found a few leagues under the sea in a locked box off the coast of norway, obviously cast to the dreary depths by the men who had seen to the witch’s execution. despite its poor outward condition, many of the pages within are completely preserved by, what meric assumes, is a very potent, very old charm. so, amidst the soured pages ( no doubt personal entries forever lost to the salt of the sea ) and mottled scrawl of no consequence, are bouts of pristine calligraphy as clear and concise as the first hour they were written. spells, incantations, ingredients, curses, unfinished notes on alchemy, poisons. 

“in the wrong hands, that little book can do a lot of damage, boss,” says artillius hencher through a mouthful of sugary biscuit.

“that’s all very well, but i don’t care whose hands it falls into. i care more about how much they’re willing to pay for it.” 

the werewolf lifts a brow as his swarthy companion shoves an inappropriate amount of treacle toffee into his mouth. “we’re done.” the finality in his voice is indisputable. 

as hencher leaves ( his ratty pockets lined with mulciber’s galleons ), meric takes a moment to flip through the soiled pages. his hands, wrapped in black leather, seem impervious to the swell of dark magic lapping at the edges of coiled parchment. it’s rare he keeps an uncovered treasure to himself, but it is the devil’s mother’s manifesto. the collector in him staunchly drowns out the needling voice of the greedy vendor.

      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  ?  ❜  

        perspired  cobblestone  remained  glistening  by  the  stain  of  evening  rain,  and  accompanied,  dense  fog  enveloped  him.  soaked  in  his  dark-pigmented  ensemble,  black  boots  swept  the  earth’s  surface  with  the  reticence  of  swirling  mists.  he  drifted,  an  assassin  stalking  his  own  shadow,  along  the  familiar  path  toward  an  archaic  establishment.  the  pub’s  fortress  existed  beside  those  of  sinister  endeavors,  its  insidious  exterior  unfeasible  to  overlook.  fragmented  firebrick  columns  comprised  its  castled  stability  --  what  murky  moats  it  lacked  made  up  by  its  immorally  corrupt  occupants.

       from  his  molten  peripheral,  there  is  a  flash  of  neon  viridescent.  an  obscured  being  exhumes  the  alley,  is  vanquished  by  a  spectral  of  their  own  apparating  retreat.  the  epoch  is  customary;  executions  linger  at  every  hexed  corner.  in  his  department  of  the  ministry,  the  hit  wizard’s  desk  is  littered  with  fugitives  --  a  plethora  of  the  dark  lord’s  knights  await  termination.  another’s  tread  reverberates  rearward,  and  the  atmosphere  retorts  by  conjuring  up  another  saturating  deluge.  as  he  pivots  on  spined  fulcrum,  the  white  wyvern’s  gateway  is  hindered  by  a  sepia-hued  notice:  UNDER  INVESTIGATION  BY  THE  DEPARTMENT  OF  MAGICAL  LAW  ENFORCEMENT.  the  wizard  snorts  --  of  course  they  failed  to  remain  inconspicuous.  on  an  expelled  breath,  he  remarks,  ❛  so  much  for  firewhisky.  ❜

* △ — the dark lord has targeted [ RABASTAN LESTRANGE ] !  the muggles say he holds resemblance to [ MATTHEW DADDARIO ]. the [ TWENTY-FIVE ] year old [ CIS MALE ] was [ CAUSTIC & DAUNTLESS ] before the war, but now have become [ APATHETIC & LETHAL ]. though they were once a part of [ SLYTHERIN ], they have now taken up the position of a [ HIT WIZARD ]. whispers throughout the ministry claim that the [ PUREBLOOD ] is actually [ A DEATH EATER ], but i wouldn’t report that to the daily prophet.

* law and order noise *