“You telling me that? Wasting your breathe entirely,” Fletch stated, glancing up at her with an innocent, but at least truthful, grin. He shrugged a shoulder faintly, then added, “I mean, I suppose if you really need me to, you could find someone I’m actually scared of to tell me that, but those people are few and far between, so I’d just wish you good luck.” Would he listen to Xeno, or Reggie, or Pandora, or even Moody? Yes, of course he would. That didn’t mean he was scared of them, of course, but that he’d listen.

He put his face fully back in the bucket, shuddering a little as she began to slather his arm up with the salve. His stomach churned and he let out a tiny whine, but tried his best to stay still as much as he could, between what was coming up and what she was doing. After all, he knew it would make her job ten times harder if he was moving or jerking, and although it stung, he didn’t want her yelling at him for that.

Wrinkling his nose slightly as she prodded him to switch arms, he stiffly moved to do so. Looking up at her, Fletch took a shaky breath, glancing at the salve and making another face. “I look like a fucking pumpkin,” He muttered out faintly, more to himself than to her. He nodded though, sitting the bucket carefully aside a little, and reaching for the water to take careful sips.

“I could scare you into listening to me.” She said it far too casually to be a threat; more of a helpful offer. One she didn’t expect to be taken up on. No, she would speak to one of the others and make it their responsibility. Not a pleasant duty, perhaps, but there had to be something to offset the pleasurable side of their association, surely. Couldn’t be sustainable otherwise. 

His complaint made her smile, even it she wasn’t meant to hear it. “Better a pumpkin than a bit of charcoal, surely.” Starting with the bandages again, she wrapped him first up to his elbow and then started a second wrap that went up to his shoulder. Tucking the end in under his arm, she rocked back to examine her work.

What if you weighed the other people. Oh. Remus blinked, turning to look at the girl with astonishment. It was surprising how that simple sentence had managed to very easily turn his thought process inside out, all at once. He’d do anything to help other werewolves. Specially now, specially having met so many packs and lived with them, seen all the anguish in them. Sure, there were a handful of werewolves proud of their condition who didn’t wish to change, but the other vast majority understood the weight of the curse. 

“Yes. It would,” he agreed. It was actually embarrassing that he could be read so easily by her, but he wouldn’t mention it out loud. 

His brows furrowed, arms crossing in front of his chest as he angled his body towards her, willing to have a proper conversation now instead of staring up at the sky in avoidance. “What are you truly asking me?” His voice wasn’t accusatory, but there was a certain newfound impatience to his tone. “I can’t rid myself of it. But sure, I’d try anything, I’d give anything to be free from the curse. Do you just enjoy hearing a good sob story?”

Robyn’s curious expression twisted slightly with a frown as that impatience bled in to his tone, only to be echoed back. “No, I don’t listen to sob stories.” Far too often they came down to people not trying hard enough to help themselves and giving up. The rare times that inadequacy of effort wasn’t the root of the ‘sob’, well... in those cases, Robyn found the stories left her feeling all together too uncomfortably helpless feeling.

No, she didn’t enjoy sob stories.

madeyed-andmoody​:

@edgeofnicky​, @speakablyundone​

“‘scuse me,” Moody says, a grin curling around the edges of his eyes and his mouth. “‘er granddaddy.” Because that makes a whole lot of a difference. But it was a matter of semantics, and Alastor knew that was the world Robyn lived in. Semantics. Data. For a witch, she was always, always thinking in numbers. 

Nicky waved someone down and Moody ordered a stout, the dark brew sounding just like what he needed. 

“Me? I was a bloody beater, Edgecombe. ‘Course I fink they’re th’ extension.” A wider twist to his grin exposes white teeth before Alastor mumbles his thanks to the waitress that brings him his drink. “’ow long yah been ‘ere?” 

.

Nicky had been halfway through a sip of her brew when Moody offered a retort to Robyn’s calling him a grandfather. If she hadn’t been drinking, the noise would have been a bark of a laugh. Instead, it was a choked noise that left her coughing and letting out a wheezy cackle instead. “Is that an official title, then?” She asked them both once she’d managed to take a breath. 

Nicky’s face broke into a wide grin. “Of course y’were. Makes sense, couldn’t see y’wantin’ to sit around trying to block the quaffle from scorin’. Ye’d want to be where the fun is.” She raised her glass in a little salute to the older wix. “Long enough fer this to be my second drink o’the night. Though, I suppose most of it just wound up on Doc’s bar… Don’t tell him it was me, he’ll read me the feckin’ riot act fer it, and then I’ll never trick his grumpy arse into smilin’.”

@speakablyundone​

The pair were sinking deeper into the rumble of their home, but Robyn wasn’t about to follow. Oh, she’d not struggle to understand them for a second, but her own accent tended to slide more eastward that west when alcohol lubricate the posh affectation into falling away. There was a comfort that came from listening to the pair, though, that left her smiling into her cup. It disolved into a thoughtful frown at Nicky’s comment.

“He’s not so hard to make smile,” she mused. Or was that just her. She and Caradoc got along very well, she thought. They understood each other at the very least.

Pulling some barnapkins over to start sopping up Nicky’s mess, she answered Alastor, “This is still my first.” She made a little gesture with her glass; she’d asked Caradoc for something nice and he’d definitely delivered.

Gwen tried not to smile, but perhaps Robin had a point. Still, majority opinion had done a lot of ruling in her life. Stupid didn’t mean it didn’t happen. Stupid just meant all too often unfortunately. “You may have a point,” she conceded, hoping the acknowledgement would appease Robin.

Gwen had heard the patronus was tricky magic, but that didn’t mean much to her. It all sounded complicated. What was one more spell? She closed her eyes, letting in a deep breath through her nose before opening them again to look at Robyn. “You shouldn’t joke about things like that,” she said, voice flat. “It’s one thing to tell me others can’t do it because it’s hard. It’s quite another to try and dangle some false hope in front of me. There is nothing else. There’s never been anything else. You can’t make a promise like that. It’s not attainable.”

She turned away, not even caring that she was technically walking away from a customer at the counter. Robyn had already payed. She was technically done. Gwen walked right past her to start straightening a shelf as if she wasn’t there. Still, she added, “I’m sure this is funny. It always is.”

The acknowlegment pleased Robyn, but it would never be enough to appease her. She was far too much of a Ravenclaw to be so easily bought off. (People thought Slytherins were the greedy ones, with all that ambition. People were idiots.)

It was that same sensibility that got offended at the idea of unattainable, impossible; the one Gwen triggered as she turned away. Only for a second, until it was washed over with a much more pressing sense of unsteady bafflement. “Funny? What’s funny?” Robyn followed the other woman, missing the clear sign of dismissal as she narrowed in on the question. “I’m not being funny—You don’t think I’m being sincere.“ That wasn’t a question, and her expression dropped into a frown.

Fletch would have easily put a banshee to shame, and honestly he was almost slightly disappointed he didn’t get to attempt it before Robyn returned. Though, the last thing he wanted was for the rest of the Order to be angry with him, and given the state of things, perhaps he’d leave his attempts at putting a banshee to shame for another day, and for another situation. Still, he was grateful that she returned rather quickly.

Tilting his head at seeing all the things that she returned with, he almost snickered, but then was grabbing onto the bucket as it was shoved into his arms. “Oh fun, good, yeah, gotta get all this bad gunk out to make way for the good gunk later, huh?” He tried to joke lightly, though it wasn’t like he was wrong about it. He’d need something later, and he already knew what he was going to grab to smoke. Hopefully it’d help.

He took the charcoal potion and drank it, making a face and shuddering a little. Still, he was going to be good, because she was helping him, and while he leaned his forehead on the rim of the bucket to make sure his face was in it, he held out his left arm so she could start with it.

“Is telling you to wait a couple day before filling your smoke-abused lungs with more smoke something you will listen to, or am I wasting my breath?” Maybe if she had Xeno enforce the mandate for her, or Reginald (would he listen to Reginald or ignore anything honest regarding Reginald? He seemed very practiced in that), or there was always Pandora who was rapidly rising in the ranks of “Sensible One” in the queer little grouping they had.

Robyn kept her grip carefully firm as she started to slather his arm up with a thick layer of the bright orange salve, smearing it up from his wrist to his bicep, and then down over his fingers, aiming for an even coating before she wiped her fingers more or less clean on his discarded shirt. Then she grabbed one of the rolls of bandages. Using her thumb to pin the start in place against his pulse, she first wrapped up to above his elbow and then back down to cover his palm, leaving his fingers sticking out stiffly.

@speakablyundone

Though this hadn’t been his intention, Xenophilius knew that Robyn was breaking. The harder she pinched her mouth together, the more angrily she set things down onto the counter, meant she cared. It meant that she was worried. Xeno had never meant to worry her, or anyone. He’d just dome what he thought had been best.

People seemed not to want to understand that or, more likely, didn’t quite know how to.

Dutifully, Xeno shifts around so he can open thr cabinets and grab their cups, Robyn’s preferred and his own, down from the cupboards. Xeno pauses, brow drawing down into a frown, and he looks Ober at her. He hadn’t known that she’d been sent after Dementors.

“How was your Patronus? Did she cast alright?” A hint of worry was in his tone now, brain running everything that could have gone wrong like a film reel, again and again. “How were you? It is not every day that we face, well, Dementors.”

Comparatively, being blown into a bus stop seemed like a drop.in the bucket to that. He just wasn’t going to say that.

The mention of Nate made the corner of his mouth tilt upward, I’d only a little. “Yes, thank you for that. It does help to know he was in good hands.”

Robyn fully understood Xeno had done only what he thought was best; she vehemently disagreed and was uncomfortably scared by the realities of the incredibly vulnerable position it had put him in. What was so difficult to understand about that? Aside from her inability to clearly articulate it with any understandable words.

“My casting was fine.” Likely some of the cleanest and most sustained of the group, if she was to evaluate bluntly. “I’ve had some practice due to work.” A subject that she wasn’t going to expand on, largely because she couldn’t without that contractual lump in her throat getting in the way.

It was a good thing that not all of Xeno’s sense of self-preservation had been lost—all positive ground gained would have been obliterated if he’d voiced his evaluation of explosion vs. dementors.

Fletch narrowed his eyes a little as she sent the question back at him, asking if he knew how fiendfyre worked. Well, he knew at least enough of it to have not gotten himself killed, hadn’t he? He wanted to say just that, but just let out a huff in response to her, in clear irritation. “Oh, I know what drained feels like, don’t worry, I can take it,” The next words to come out of his mouth were more of a tease this time, a smirk starting to grow on his face. Was it childish? Absolutely. Was Fletch going to not act like that? Of course not.

He wiggled his eyebrows a little as she looked him over, though knew she was doing so in just a clinical sense. It was odd having someone look at him, and that being the reaction he got, if he were honest. But it was her response to his question about pain potions that really made him look annoyed. How could one not have any pain potions if they were supposed to be helping people like this?

“Oi! It’s not all unregulated, I am very good at what I do,” He huffed out at her, “It’s great for times like this.” Still, if she wasn’t going to get him his own pain potions, then she should have something for him, shouldn’t she? He eyed her as she pulled the bag close, tilting his head just slightly. “Muggle painkillers, eh?” He didn’t say no though, quickly reaching for the pills and the glass.

As she started to stand, he did have a brief second where he wondered if she was just going to up and leave him sitting there, though if she left her kit, she’d have to come back for that, he thought. His nerves were calmed when she crouched back down, and he nodded to her. “You better be, or else I’m gonna scream loud enough for all of the house to hear,” He stated simply, before downing the water and the pills.

Was that a sex joke thing? Robyn wasn’t sure if that was a sex joke thing, or what it could possibly refer to—and wasn’t sure she wanted to know. (If she did decide she wanted to know, she’d ask Xeno who would be two hundred times less likely to tease her about it than Fletcher.) Sex joke or something else, she was pretty sure that it had little bearing on Fletcher understanding what she meant by ‘draining’.

Him getting his hands on regulated potions should have been more alarming, but given that the pills he were so eagerly popping were regulated in their own world, that would be a tinge hypocritical of Robyn. She’d much rather feel a bit smug about the matter and having something in common with the man than feel like a hypocrite.

Considering that Fletcher was likely capable of putting a banshee to shame if he wanted to put some effort into it, Robyn didn’t linger longer than it took to lightly press her fingers into his leg reassuringly as she stood up again. Then she hurried to gather the other things she’d need to treat the burns—and the smoke inhalation he hadn’t complained of but was probably tickling his lungs in a less pleasant way that his usually smokeables did.

A quick check with Emmeline (Evan was occupied hovering and being very concerned over Theodosia, and Robyn didn’t want to add to that concern with simple questions), a stop in the supply closet, and then Robyn was back, a large tub of burn salve in her arms, a bucket balanced on top, with a small charcoal potion tucked inside. Settling down at Fletcher’s side, she snagged the potion and then pushed the bucket into his arms. “Drink this, and aim for the bucket,” she told him. “We need to get any gunk you inhaled out of your lungs.” Gunk. Very techinical term. (Whose idea was it to put her on the medical team again? Oh right, Jones.)

Fletch kept making a face as Robin spoke like that, though he was grateful for how she didn’t seem, at least outwardly, to be irritated with him. Sure, he understood the whole, having to ask questions thing, but couldn’t she just help sooner? “And I’m answering them, aren’t I?” He stated simply in return, though it wasn’t as snippy as the previous replies had been. Even if he was being entirely annoying, he was at least answering them.

He shivered as she ghosted her fingers over the wounds, jutting out his lower lip again to look as sad as possible. “No,” he muttered out, “Pretty sure they’re like, everywhere. You know how fiendfyre works, yeah?” Was he sure there were burns everywhere? No, but his entire body did ache for whatever reason it might be, and so he was just going to go with that for an easier statement.

She pointed at his chest and told him shirt off, and although it hurt a little, Fletch didn’t hesitate to comply. It wasn’t like Robyn hadn’t seen him naked before, after all, so he wasn’t really bothered about it. He eyed her kit for a moment, before speaking up, “What kind of pain potion do you have in there? Can you get my bag for me?”

“Yes you are, and it is very appreciated.” There was the edge of conciliatory patience to her words, like soothing an irrational child. No, not ‘like’—that was what it was. How often had she seen her mother pull out that tone to deal with an upset patient of any age? There was something about pain that made people regress and act like toddlers.

“I do. Do you?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Regardless of anything else, you’re going to have to take it easy for the next few days. Fiendfyre is... draining to deal with.” Her eyes dragged across his chest with a chilling clinical scrutiny; no ogling here. She’d leave that to Xeno, when they got their hands on the man.

Following his glance for a second, she shook her head. “No pain potions in there. And I’m not letting you take whatever unregulated slop you packed for yourself.” Given the effects of Fiendfyre, avoiding adding more magic into his system right now was probably the best idea. Instead, she reached for her bag and tugged it closer, pulling out a couple bottles she’d borrowed from her mother. “Muggle’s have remarkable painkillers, though,” she said, replacing one bottle and opening the other to shake two little pills onto her palm. Pulling a little glass out from her kit, she quickly filled it with water and then handed both the glass and pills to Fletcher.

Gwen nodded, keeping her face neutral as she listened to Robyn talk. Obviously dementors took a lot out of people, but Gwen felt like there was another edge to it, something else she was supposed to imply. Was she talking about the Order? About wix in general? Robyn was both of those things, and Gwen was the former. She didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Any considerations she was making about it froze as Robyn brought up Andromeda. After Gwen had practically dragged her through the floo to get her safely back to the Prewett Estate after her own magic had made her unable to function, and yet Gwen’s lack of magic was the sole problem. Andromeda had used the dementors as proof she was helpless, ignoring what Gwen had done, not just in preparation and in the field but to her personally. Part of her wondered if she’d do it again, knowing what she did now. Would she be petty enough to say, Sorry, I’m too useless to do anything. Guess I better just stay with the family and let you risk bleeding out if you can’t get yourself back in time. She didn’t think so. But it had crossed her mind.

She didn’t know that she believed she would have been fine with any situation–fiendfyre scared the shit out of her–but Gwen offered as warm a smile she could at the idea. It was still rather icy. “Yes, well, clearly that isn’t the majority opinion. I appreciate the sentiment, I suppose. Besides, you can say defense mechanism like there’s any options to make me feel better, but we both know squibs can’t produce a patronus. Thanks, though.” 

She wasn’t totally immune to that chilling smile, but Robyn was familiar enough with the sort to be able to forge forward without being completely put off. “A majority doesn’t make it an intelligent opinion.” Robyn paused for a moment, lips curling in a considering frown as she cocked her head to the side. “In fact, I think it is likely to make it an increasingly stupid opinion.”

The frown wavered as her lips pursed for a second before calm reaffirmed itself as Robyn pointed out, “Neither can the majority of the wixen population. Nor plenty of people in the Order, for that matter.” Really, that the Patronus Charm, a highly advanced, complicated spell, was the only defense against Creatures that had been pointedly weaponized against wix and where now breaking free of the boundaries placed on them—well, it was worrisome and ridiculous. “I didn’t mean a Patronus when I said defense mechanism. If there aren’t other options,” which she wasn’t convinced there weren’t, yet,”then we ought to make one. Or several.”

Gwen had figured Lynch would take her roots and go, so she paused herself, still behind the counter as the other looked around. Ah, this was about to become a larger conversation then. She wasn’t here as just a customer but as an Order member. Gwen supposed she should be pleased a little shopping had happened to then.

“I’m fine,” she said, reservation clear in her voice. She’d discussed it directly with very few people and certainly hadn’t expected Robin to be someone asking her about it. She had never struck Gwen as the cuddly type, so Gwen couldn’t help her wariness as she wondered where this was really going. “Yourself?” It was only polite to ask in return, even if it felt like a bit of a false pleasantry as it was. She didn’t know whether she could truly trust where things were going yet.

“A bit tired,” she said honestly, not in the least bit bothered by that hesitant reservation. Honestly, she barely noticed it, too fixated on making sure the woman was okay from the weekend to recognize the potential discomfort in this current moment. “Those sorts always take a lot out of anyone, and having to deal with so many of them.”

Let Gwen decide if ‘those sorts’ were wix or Dementors.

madeyed-andmoody:

@edgeofnicky, @speakablyundone

Alastor Moody after a job done could, admittedly, be a bit of a creature of habit. Now, he didn’t do it often, and rarely ever in the same place, but a drink with a handful of colleagues, usually fellow Minsitry staff wasn’t unheard of.

For the young women he was currently late to meet, well, it might come as a bit of a shock, but Alastor had once been able to drink most Auror recruits under the table, let alone skiv them off their hard earned paychecks with quod cup. That was not the life he lived anymore, but he could still hold his own. He also, as it were, had ulterior motives.

Checking on both Robyn and Nicola after the mission was smart, the right thing to do, particularly after one of them had sustained a bloody concussion.

“Her bloody problem wit’ th’ Bats is that ‘er da ain’t fundin’ ‘em,” Alastor chirps brightly, slinging off his jacket and tossing it across a chair. He sits down moments later, legs a sprawl beneath the table. “An’ she could do worse than th’ Cannons, Robyn. She could like th’ fuckin’ Wanderers.”

“Don’t frown at Barny the Fruitbat, you’ll make him sad.” Nicky pouted, as though the bat on the front of her shirt would see and take offense. The bat on the jumper stared out at the world with an unseeing, unknowing smile despite it. “I like to think of beaters as an extension of the team’s defense. Sure, the keeper’s doin’ their job, but the beaters are the ones buzzin’ around distracting the opposition so they can’t get maintain a solid offense. And the best offense is a good defense.” Nicky said with a sip of her drink.

She looked up with a delighted smile as the Auror set down his jacket. “Look what the kneazle dragged in!” She crowed, raising a hand and waving it to track someone down to get Moody a drink. “’Bout ye, Moody?”

She made a face as he brought up the Wanderers. “Abso-feckin’-lutely not. If I ever, and I do mean ever show up claiming to be a fan of the Wanderers, assume I’ve been cursed, or replaced by an imposter. Because the Nicky you all know and love would be feckin’ dead before she betrayed Barny the Fruitbat.”

@speakablyundone​

Before Robyn could point out that even the most exemplary defense couldn’t score any points, Alastor was settling into the seat across from her. Giving the older man a liquor warmed smile, she sniffed slightly as she corrected, “Grandfather,” as if that made any functional difference to his argument, but he should still get the points right. Killian Lynch didn’t care much for Quidditch, rejecting the family business out of some need to counterrebel against a world that had ejected him from their ranks.

“One has to be unhinged to cheer for the Wanderers,” she said simply; a level of unhinged even the chaotic Edgecomb couldn’t aspire too. Tradition or not, it took a special mindset to think waving cleavers around a crowded stadium as a way to cheer for your team was a good idea. “But at least they win, occasionally.” Which was more than the Canons could claim.

As Robyn’s rapidfire questioning continued, Xenophilius shifted from foot to foot, a frown deepening the furrow between his brows the more and more she spoke. He knew that, objectively, she was correct. He could have had Edgar pick Lily up, and was glad he hadn’t, seeing as he’d also been injured. Edgar just hadn’t known about it. 

But, he also knew where this tirade was coming from, so he didn’t push, didn’t protest, just stood there and fidgeted and frowned before nodding his head in defeat. “Yes, I know. And I’m sorry, but I didn’t do it to worry anyone I just –” 

Xeno stopped, sighed again. Ran a hand down his face, carefully balancing the box Robyn had plopped down into his hands. He wasn’t going to tell her he’d only been half-healed. She didn’t need to know that. His ribs were the main issue, and they’d been cared for, as had most of his concussion.

“ – I did what I thought was right, at the time. My ribs were hurting, yes, but when do I not hurt? I was careful, lifting her. Wila had a broken wrist, Edgar was not there. Could I have done something different at the estate? Probably. But, I didn’t, and I’m not going to say I would have, anyway. I can only promise to think about it for more than a few seconds in the future.” 

The last bit he said with a bit of a tease, a little smile. Robyn knew, or should know, that he didn’t just think about things only a little bit. Everything he did had a cause and a care behind it. 

Nodding when she said her mum didn’t know because she didn’t want to worry her, Xeno followed her wordlessly into the kitchen and sat himself on top of a counter once the box was stowed safely a foot or so away. It wasn’t a hard climb, given his height, but he made a show of being careful, for her benefit. “Tell her thank you, though I’ll send her a floo or an owl after you leave. Dorrie’ll like them, I’m sure.” He may even see if he could get Nate to try some of them, too, picky as he was. 

“How was the infirmary? Headquarters? It must have been terribly quiet until we showed back up.”

Holding on to her fussy bluster was exceedingly difficult when he insisted on being so unfailingly considerate and sweet and Xeno-ish. Her lips stayed pinched together in a disapproving moue that was more about making sure he fully understood the depths of her concern than any ongoing upset with him; the firmly and deliberate layout out of tea things was another emphasizing point to that. “Cups,” she ordered him firmly, since he was already up on the counter next to the cabinet and she felt like neither stretching to get them or pulling out her wand to magic them down.

“Quiet, yes, to start. Then everything started to happen, and I didn’t stay long enough to see the chaos of everyone coming back. Hestia dispatched me to York to help deal with the Dementors they ran into.” Her hands tensed for a second, fingers flexing against the shiver the memory of that oppressive presences summoned. “There was definitely some chaos when we returned.” Between Andromeda’s screaming match with Evan, the panic over those who had been in the explosion (Xeno included), and then the inrush of those who had encountered the Death Eaters. Evans and Selwyn might have come away the worst off, but there’d been plenty of work to do for everyone else in the infirmary as well, especially with Black having been sent back out to the field in London.

The moon. He did hate it, so he simply hummed in agreement, standing by his response. Perhaps hate was not the first feeling that filled up his chest at the sight of it, fear was something closer to it. Some sort of despair, twisted deep into his guts, every time he looked up and saw it growing fuller and fuller. He was used to it, the whole thing. He didn’t know a life without it. But it didn’t mean he didn’t feel the uneasiness pulling at his heart every time the night fell upon them.

Robyn’s follow-up question was intriguing, enough so that his brows furrowed in confusion, gaze turning down to see her again. Not many people poked around within this subject with him. Usually it was a lot of pretending they didn’t see it, and him pretending he didn’t care. This direct approach was certainly different, but not entirely a problem.

“Wouldn’t destroying the moon have some pretty dire consequences? To the world, I mean. The tides and all that.” He wouldn’t pretend to know enough astronomy to say, but he was sure he’d read up on this at some point. His shoulders raised in a quick shrug. “But sure. If it’d rid me of it, maybe I would.”

Destroying the moon would have consequences, potentially very large ones that only started with the tides. Yet even thinking of that, the wizard charged ahead, agreed. Or at the very least, was open to the hypothetical. And that was interesting.

“What if you weighed in all the other people it might help?” The other werewolves. “Would that make your answer more definite?” She was poking and prying, and Robyn knew it wasn’t the most polite thing to do, but he didn’t seem to mind and thus she saw little reason to back off. If anything, she’d say he seemed intrigued by the questions, and no one would ever accuse Robyn of dropping an intriguing line of inquiry. No, there was far too much potential for discovery to ever do that.

Fletch pursed his lips, brows furrowing as Robyn spoke like that. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m not hurting,” he huffed out at her unhappily. He was grateful, of course, that he was still all of those things, but did she not just hear what all he’d said? He was hurting, for fuck’s sake! Still, he stayed still, watching as she crouched down and let out a whimper as she touched his ankle.

“Ow!” He whined out, “I know it’s broken, because it snapped in half! I was laying on the ground one way and it was still up another way! Like, my foot was literally encased in whatever shit they used for the trap, and Sirius had to free me from it! He healed it as he could, but it still fucking hurts!” He huffed, then continued, “I got up and we had to go fight fiendfyre too, so you know, not great!”

He paused, wrinkling his nose as she asked him that question, then let out a deep sigh. “The ankle doesn’t hurt as bad as the burns do now, but it all still fucking hurts a lot! Are you going to help me or keep asking dumb questions?”

All right, perhaps some degree of his dramatics were warranted, if his ankle was that bad off. Poor Fletcher, if only he cried wolf less. But now Robyn could see the scratches on the door for herself, and she wasn’t about to ignore him out of a stubborn need to be right.

“I’m asking questions so I can determine how best to help you,” she said smoothly; not of drop of irritation made it through to betray any tested patience. Her fingers finished their search and she decided that it was fine to leave as it was for now. Whatever healing Black (the elder, rasher, surprisingly still alive one) had done was holding, and she and Fletcher shared a bigger concern.

Gwen nodded, contemplating who would be mostly to have it. She was pretty sure her roots had come from a supplier that shop in Hogsmeade had suggested. If they could get the root, surely they could get the leaf too. “Yeah, I’ll look into it and get back to you. I think it shouldn’t be too hard to track down a quality supply, although it’ll depend on how often they supply as to how often I can have some for you.”

She watched as the other held the root with clear, practiced care. As she smelled the aroma of it, Gwen could tell this wasn’t something she’d asked for a whim. For that reason, Gwen felt a surge of pride at the compliment. “Thank you,” she said with a slight tilt of her head. “We do our best.” 

Many of the common ingredients’ prices Gwen had memorized, but this one certainly wasn’t it. “Lets check the book,” she said as she followed Robyn out of the aisle and up to the counter. Gwen stepped around her to go around and flip through until she found what she was looking for. “Here we go. Based on how much we paid to get them in, two galleons a piece.” It was a bit steep, she knew, but for the quantify they’d shipped, it had been expensive. She needed room for overhead, especially if Robyn decided to haggle her on it.

Robyn Lynch didn’t haggle. Or at least, she didn’t haggle for the sake of a penny pinched. Presented with a reasonable enough price, she’d take it, even if there might be some wiggle room. A few knuts was hardly going to make a difference to her vault balance.

With a nod, she reached into her bag and found her wallet, fishing out two galleons. Sliding them across the counter, she stood at ease as she waited for the woman to wrap up the purchase. She looked around the shop, taking in the shelves of ingredients as well as confirming that the place was empty, at least within audible distance.

“And how are you fairing, after this weekend’s excitement?” Said so casually, she could have been talking about anything. A house party, helping a friend move, a particularly long session of brewing that carried on through the night. The only people who might guess ‘unexpected battle with a bunch of escaped Dementors’ were ones who either needed their head checked or were already in the know.

Sláinte

Where: The Flaming Dragon

When: 29th of June 1984

Who: @madeyed-andmoody​ & @speakablyundone​

Nicky wasn’t sure how she’d gotten here. 

Well, no, that was a lie. She knew exactly how she’d gotten to The Flaming Dragon. It was just a short walk from her flat, and after all the running about planning for a party to celebrate being alive, she needed a drink. So that wasn’t the mystery of the evening.

No, the question of the evening was how the hell she’d managed to trick two very cool older wix with much more dangerous and fascinating lives than her let her tag along for a few drinks. So how she’d gotten there, perched atop her bar stool sat next to Robyn Lynch, and waiting on Alastor Moody was a bloody mystery to her. 

“I don’t know what your problem with the Bats is.” Nicky laughed, taking another sip of her drink. “One, their uniforms are feckin’ cool as hell, two, their beaters are some of the best in the game, and three, have you seen Barny the fruitbat, Robyn?!” She tugged at the front of her jumper, drawing attention to the smiley little bat mascot emblazoned on it. “He’s adorable.”

@speakablyundone​

Objectively speaking, there wasn’t really a good answer to the witch’s question; not one based in logic and reason. The Bats had the better League record, less aesthetically garish colors, and a mascot who was both very cute and less likely to be turned into a stereotypical joke by the rest of the division. (That Robyn would personally argue for a change to a more adorable Kestrel for the mascot at every family get together was a fiercely held secret that never left the bounds of the Lynch estate.)

No, it was entirely subjective and rooted in sentimentality and gross nostalgia that Robyn would sooner die than cheer for any other team when Kenmare was playing. But how to encapsulate several hundred years of family loyalty into an argument that wouldn’t sound ridiculous? Simple: don’t even try.

“There’s nothing wrong with the Bats, but they aren’t the Kestrels,” Robyn said flatly, frowning down at Barny so she didn’t smile back at him. “And beaters don’t win games.” Just earn lots of cheers for their antics, which the current pair new very well and played to full advantage. If she was really being honest, then that was part of Ballycastle’s great success—their ability to connect with the more modern Quidditch fan, rather than relying on centuries of tradition.

“At least you don’t root for the Canons,” was the most definitive, objective thing she could say about it. No need for sanity saving intervention.

A waxing crescent. Remus always thought the moon looked its best just like that. Barely visible, it stood in front of the navy blue skies as a sliver, a barely visible curved string, as if someone had added a dash of light as an afterthought. New moons were too ominous – something about the full absence of the very thing that haunted his nightmares being worse off than having it there. He liked her like this, stupid, tiny, harmless. He could stare up all night, and it wouldn’t move, wouldn’t grow, despite what some of his more whacky nightmares liked to play out.

It was a nice breath of fresh air, every month, knowing he was far away from the next turn. It was like seeing the incoming impact, but knowing you still had enough time to brace yourself for it. 

He didn’t expect anyone to join him outside – him, with the hands in his pockets and the eyes stuck in the sky for so long that he could pick out the constellations by now. Still, when Robyn appeared, it didn’t startle him. There was always a certain calmness that covered everything in nights like these, safe at the Estate. Do you hate it. He thought about asking what exactly. The moon? Lycanthropy? Mostly living alone, half-abandoned, in an oversized house that wasn’t his own? He hummed. “Yeah.” He answered just as quietly, eyes finally dropping down to greet her. “Which part do you mean?”

Continuing forward until she was at his side, Robyn gave him a faint smile. Most would have asked the question first, before agreeing. Or did he mean to say as much with the simple word as he had; an agreement to all the things she could have meant, offered with little hesitation.

Breaking their shared gaze, she tilted her head back to look up at the sky and its freckled stars, the dark void of the moon more noticeable for it. “The moon,” she clarified simply. Was it the easiest part to hate, or the hardest? This concrete emblem of what was done to him, what happened against his control, but ultimately a bystander in the horror of it all. Or at least, so she thought. Lycanthropy and its exact mechanisms weren’t her area of study; how much of its tie to the lunar cycle was causation and how much was correlation?