#falldownstarter

Camilla was in a mood. She couldn’t exactly describe it, somewhere between intense anxiety and irritation and fear that manifested itself by her snapping at anyone who looked the wrong way. So she spent the morning moping, and then went out and dropped a good bit of the Greengrass fortune on shoes she wouldn’t wear, a bag she’d likely never use, and some lingerie she was sure Adrian wouldn’t mind. 

Maybe it was that she’d turned 24, and thirty was creeping closer and closer. Maybe it was the pressure she knew they’d be getting soon. You’re that old with no heir? She could almost hear her fathers voice. Or it was the tension that seemed to be everywhere after the attack at the ministry and then Diagon Alley. Camilla hadn’t been warned, and likely if it were not for Cillian she would have been hurt. Once the adrenaline had worn off, it was quickly replaced with a cold fear. The kind that crept in, chilling the summer sun. When she lost sight of Adrian for a second at a party and feared she’d never see him again. When Cillian didn’t return her owls quickly enough, or was too busy with work to see her. And the evenings she spent waiting, when that black mark on his arm pulled her husband from her bed, and she sat up late, letting the fire burn low, alone with her fear. 

So it was only natural that she was a bit preoccupied walking out of the shop and clearly wasn’t expecting anyone to be walking in the opposite direction. The small brunette crashed into the other person, and fell to her hands and knees, sending the tie she’d gotten for Adrian out of its bag and into the mud.

The night was his. It had always been his, for as long as he could remember. The night had been his friend. It provided the shadows through which he crept, stalked, hunted. And it gave him the moon. 

Looking up, Fenrir felt the pull of the moon. It was not full yet, but soon. Its face, shining down on him was a promise, a reminder of who and what he was. He eagerly awaited the change it brought.  It was the one time that he could be truly free. 

Outwardly, he looked like any man. Hands tucked into his pockets as he sauntered down the street, a lit cigarette held between his teeth. He had an air about him that either scared people off, or drew them in. Danger. Messy black hair, black leather jacket. He had foregone the motorbike for tonight in preference of walking. He liked the ground under his feet, the solidness of his legs beneath him. And he could hear and see much more at this pace.  

When Molly woke that morning, she felt the heavy weight of all that had gone on for her family in the past month and knew that if she stayed in the Burrow all day, she’d be a wreck by the time Arthur made it home again. So she fed the boys and packed a bag with snacks - hopefully enough but the way Bill and Charlie ate, she could never be sure - and enough to take care of the twins for a few hours. Then she hurried the boys out the door, breathing a sigh of relief when they were in the open air and the roof overhead didn’t feel like it was going to crush the air from her chest. There was a park nearby where Bill and Charlie liked to run around, and Percy enjoyed himself, and she had a bench with a clear view of everything so she didn’t worry too much about the boys. They arrived and she settled herself on the bench as the older boys took off for their favorite spots to play and she set up a blanket for the twins. No muggles were around, so she was able to set up an unseen barricade with her wand, preventing Fred or George from wandering away.

And then there was nothing left to distract her from her emotions, so she let out a shaky breath and focused on a point in the distance to keep the tears from spilling out. “You have nothing to cry over, Molly Weasley. Pull yourself together.”

Druella Black sat outside the cafe at bit down the ways from the entrance to the Ministry for Magic. Even though this was technically a muggle street, the Cafe could only be seen by those with magical blood. Personally she thought it should be limited to those with all magical blood, but that was neither here nor there. Sipping her coffee, she jotted something down in the margin of her day planner, a reminder to leave out the advertisement for the ring she wanted their anniversary on Cygnus’s desk. Perhaps they could travel soon, the winter and early spring had been busy and they’d not had time to get away. He worked so much, and her daughters were gone, Druella needed something to fill her day. She suddenly realized someone had said something, and she glanced up quickly with a smile. 

This late at night, the streetlamps guttered, hollow orange and yellow sputtering haphazard luminescence throughout a cold, tight side alley of magical London. Rabastan’s back pressed against the hard brick wall of an unassuming building. He exhaled, long, powerful, and the flames of the lamps danced in loyal worship. Beside him, a windowless and locked door waited to be opened, but strangely, no door knob was there to open it. If one pressed their ear against the surface, they’d hear the faintest thump of a rhythmic bass or the muffled howls of licentious activity occurring beyond the door. He was playing bouncer for some shady, member’s only club for the night – seventy-five galleons for a few hours of his time, letting those who knew the password inside the door (and collecting a bit of a profit of his own by making those who didn’t and whose curiosity burdened enough to pay a price for him to sneak them in.) Rabastan lazily grinned to himself as he played with a galleon between his fingers, his head tilted back on his spine, the line of his throat stretched and exposed like the scrag of a snake perched in wait.

Foot steps snapped his head forward. An eyebrow raised, the coin gamboling over his knuckles, glistening caught gold in the moonlight as his chin tipped up in warning at the approaching person, languid hyena grin still stretched across his face. He tossed the coin in the air and quickly snatched it back into his palm. “Pay up if you want in.”