#ftprpg

There won't be anymore bagging and tagging. Right, Artemis? You'll marry me after the World Cup, right?"

At the corner of his eye he spotted his mates; Macnair was busy in a heated duel, looking a bit preoccupied-- odd really. And Rowle was running past him in a manic, chasing after a group of students. The pair had no specific objections like he did. “Rufus!” He shouted at the fourth year, catching him in his sights again before he could take off. He wondered what he could have been feeling? Did he think the elder was here to help? Surely he couldn’t be that stupid? “Familienvermächtnisse, haben sie vergessen?" His accent thickened as he spoke the German words, the language that was often spoke during family gathering.   Family Legacies, did you forget? The shopkeeper had always been the one to practice tough love on his cousin. In many ways, it really was the only form of affection he could show him due to the disappointment he harbored. Heirs of the Blishwick clan, He, Damien, and Rufus were suppose to be setting an example and making their grandparents proud. “Opa und Oma lassen.” Grandpa and Grandma send their regards. The end of his wand shot out a green light but instead of aiming it at Rufus, it headed straight in the direction of the blonde beside him. 

He had asked the numbers and they told him what to do. Rufus Tremlett arrived at the hall, his arms filled with carrying bags for all the things he would need to get ready, high as a kite.  His trademarked, pomegranate colored hair, had been shed of its vibrancy for the event. He sported his natural color, an auburn, sheared into layers till it shot up in coordinated directions rather than the Mohawk he had a few weeks prior. Azure orbs moved in every direction, catching all the details of the hallway till he stopped in front of the males dressing room. He would have done anything to make this less formal. Showing up in ripped jeans and an old t-shirt wasn't exactly becoming of someone of the Blishwick line, though he doubted he could even claim that blood-line anymore. Eventually, he and his mother would have more in common; they'd both be outcast-ed from the family.  In his case, for fraternizing with the "enemy" as they would say. His scattered friendships with those that were kin to the ones that brought pure-blooded families to shame was almost inexcusable but now it would be even worse. "If you're gonna mess up big, best make it a shit storm." That's what he always told himself. In the end, he would be damned if he had to sacrifice his identity and the people that made him so just to please others. It would however make things a bit more strenuous, with Damien for example...

He pushed the Borgin out of his mind, deciding to trust the bond the two cousins had rather than worry about it. But sometimes, especially with his current 'condition' he often wondered how far that trust could stretch. "You're letting it get it get to you," he shook his head to himself then opened the door just in time to catch Klarion's remark and Zach's come-back. A smirk etched Rufus' features as the half-blood made his way inside. "Careful boys, you're scaring Creevey. He's not used to our diplomatic ways." He chuckled, then met with the Ravenclaw's eyes momentarily. He wasn't sure what was worse, the fact that Klarion was even here or the fact that he was a Ravenclaw. Part of him wanted to think it was because he was afraid of what kind of warped and twisted mind he could have on top of being somewhat of a genius the other was really just worried for Louis' safety and everyone else's. Somehow, the lines between houses were blurring and the people he had learned to be weary of were everywhere now, no longer united by a single coat of arms. Who could they trust?

"Give me a minute," he replied to Zach dryly as he decided to drop his things in the cubicle beside Klarion. If anyone was going to be directly next to him, Rufus thought it out to be him. "Looking good Bleak," he gave him a hand gesture that looked like a shooting gun. "Give Montague my regards. I haven't seen her since our dinner date a few weeks ago." That's how things worked in their world. This stupid world he wanted out of; empty compliments and idle chit-chat, anything to calm a moment of rage that would eventually lead to a back-stab or two. He couldn't wait to be out of this world where he had been previously forced into various dinner dates to begin setting his path for a future, arranged marriage. "Here," he reached for one of the bags he set down and tossed a small phial at the Ravenclaw. It shone with a vibrant blue color though only enough to lighten an inch or two around it. "Party favors," he winked then prepared his own phial. It wasn't much, just enough to perhaps lighten the mood long enough to survive getting out of the dressing room. Luckily, due to privacy and god only knows what other sick reasons, there weren't any adults to monitor them.

He was a master at the needle and in a few second he was done and ready to help out Zach. He strode over, rolling his eyes at his house-mate. "Really, Harper? You can't even put on a fucking tie?" Despite his disapproval he tied it, nodding  in consent when he was done. "There, you look almost half-way decent," he smacked the side of  the chaser's arm and turned back to his cubicle to get himself ready. He stopped to observe his reflection in the mirror; flawless like it always was before he was through with it. For a moment, his hand twitched, knuckles curling until they turned blue. Then, he relaxed, a deep exhale moving past his lips and forcing his eyes away. No, not today. He couldn't be selfish and succumb to his inner demons today.

At Harper's words, his face twisted into a sinister grin, as if the words pleased him more than the sight of a few dead bodies. It was a cute quip, really, it was. Funny how the Slytherins automatically assumed they were better than everyone else. It was true on some occasions but right now? Not so much with current company.  "Just enjoy the view Harper," he snorted. "And listen to the little puff. I could have you disarmed with a bloody face and pixies scratching at yours eyes in less time than it would take to say 'fuck'." He stood from his chair, eyes looking into the mirror to watch the reflections of the others with great distaste before reaching for his recently steamed button-down, ready to replace the one he was wearing. However, Rufus Tremlett had offered a prize he could not pass up.

He eyed the Slytherin with interest, admiring the game he was currently playing.  Gessica had briefed Klarion on the half-blood. Some, snot-nosed, kid who felt entitled to defy what his pure-blooded family stood for. Though, that was the risk when procreating with lesser beings. "She told me you're evening was...entertaining.  For her at the very least." Then his eyes gleamed with curiosity as a small object was tossed in his direction. He caught it and looked down at the blue liquid. "Good to see someone knows how things work around here," he watched the other leave then uncapped the phial.

Klarion wasn't one to blemish his perfect skin. He opted for the more conservative approach and drank the slez instead. With any luck, it would make this evening a bit more tolerable until the main event started.

Anyone who had ever encountered a Weasley, a Veela, a Weasley-Veela, or Victoire would have known better than to badger the woman when she was already well into a fit of rage. Theodore Nott, however, didn't seem any the wiser to this. Or perhaps, that had been his intention all along. The only thing Victoire knew was the way her blood seemed to rush with the diluted liquid fire of her Veela heritage. Her eyes flared into an almost green shade as she regarded the Slytherin over her shoulder with a glare that would have sent daggers if such a thing were ever capable. "Careful, Theodore. I'm beginning to think the Dementors aren't the only things out 'ere worth 'exing." Was it completely paradoxal that she was able to draw enough strength and enough "power" to pull out a proper Patronus based upon anger at the moment? She wasn't entirely sure. But regardless, the moment she was able to settle herself into a stance enough to where she could pull it off without being reckless her wrist moved rather gracefully, the words leaving her lips with a bit of anger, before the wolf took form again this time actually snapping at the Dementor in front of her as it took a mouthful of the dark cloak in its massive jaws. Victoire, however, wasn't content with just this. In fact, were one looking close enough they would have seen the blue flames that already worked their way into her palms, without her even attempting to draw it forth. Despite the wood of the wand being in her hands, the flame danced around it. Obviously, someone had taken precautions by making Victoire's wand able to withstand flames. No doubt a prior incident happening when Bill's wand was reduced to smoldering ashes. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were calling me 'ot," she bit out between her teeth, making it sound more like a hiss than anything at all as she launched a bright fireball right into Theodore's direction. Despite the energy loss and toll this would eventually take on her it was obvious she was feeding off an inner source of pride, power, and a fierce determination to prove this Slytherin wrong. Or perhaps, in some forms, to let him know that she wasn't one of those pretty little things easily led astray. Victoire Weasley could handle her own. She didn't need anyone to come rescue her, nor was she about to tolerate anyone walking all over her. "Ooops?" The sound left her lips just as she was able to smirk and duck out of the way as the Dementor her wolf had launched at came back around for more. Once again, the sinking feeling threatened to eclipse the fire within her. Though the flames in her hands had faded after attacking Nott with them, she still felt that surge of self-worth force back every fear she'd ever had. This might have been a completely unprofessional way to handle things; blindly allowing whatever luck and whatever means necessary it took to get her from one point to a next, but she was a Gryffindor for this sole purpose. It was who she was and what she was made of. Being forced to backtrack a bit, nearly backing into the wall of the alleyway she allowed her eyes to pinch to a close while her wolf took another leap at the same Dementor, this time pushing it enough away to where she could back close to Nott. "Need 'elp?" She questioned in a cheeky manner, not at all caring that he'd obviously had more experience with situations like this, if not experience in general. Quick as a flash the petite blonde grabbed a handful of Nott's sweater before she'd pulled him into the brick wall, using her hand to push him against it as she focused all her weight into the shove. The momentum of the move pushing her chest into his as the tip of her nose brushed against the tip of his, for an instant their breath being shared as her eyes locked onto his; the part-Veela finally realizing just how green his eyes were, though she wasn't paying attention to that at the moment. With hair disheveled beyond all belief and a rather wild look in her eyes she didn't bother to wait for the Dementors to completely make their escape as they seemed to be doing before she'd launched at him, accent a bit thicker as she gasped for breath. "You were a Death Eater," she states as if it's the most obvious thing in the world that could have been brought up over crumpets and tea. "Or are you still et this is all just some game of yours?" An arch afflicted her brow as her chest rose once more to press into the sturdy backdrop of his own chest. Distance and personal bubbles seemed to be no issue as she was deadset on finding out answers. Was this man dangerous? Why did the shadows seem to suit him so well? Was she just throwing herself head first into a situation she wouldn't be able to handle in the end? It didn't matter. She was already too far into the impulsive act she'd initiated, there wasn't backing out now. Trouble seemed to be her weakspot and Theodore Nott seemed to be nothing but trouble.

Fighting a dementor or avoiding a part-veela attack? Theodore would have been fine with either. He flicked his wrist then thrust an arm forward, his patronus following the move as it slithered quickly to one side and attacked his dementor again. The two forms attacked one another; darkness and light fusing together every now and then in a violent dance. When he heard Victoire’s words he raised a brow, ready to turn with a smirk when all of a sudden he was caught off guard. There was no transition to his expressions as suddenly he sported wide eyes and furrowed brows. He felt the heat of the flame approach and in a matter of seconds he had thrown himself to one side to avoid the attack. “Crazy, bird,” he grumbled to himself, wondering just how the woman had completed such a feat. He straightened himself then swung his arm wand like he would a baseball bat, delivering the final blow to his own dementor. “No, thanks.” His victory was short lived and just when he was able to take a breath of air he was violently pulled to one side, his back meeting with the brick wall. Whatever positive expression he might have possessed with instantly gone. He did not appreciate any of this and it was made clear by his expression and tone. “What in the bloody He-“ Emerald orbs pierced through her blue ones, as they grew dangerously sharp with each passing second. He was doing well to keep himself under control, after all she was still intact. The distaste in her words were insulting and for some reason, it bothered him. He pushed his back forward, his hands grabbing onto her shoulders as he moved himself from the wall and her away from him. “Oh yes, you know, we have nothing better to do then fight dementors with half-breeds,” his tone was rough and obviously angry but not enough to hide the sarcasm from his statement. It was then, in the heat of his anger, that he realized no wizard could have produced fire from anywhere but the tip of their wand. It hadn’t really bothered him, but it was a rare incident, indeed. One that did not go unnoticed by him. “If you’re done judging me,” he began while returning his wand to its holster and adjusting the sleeve to his sweater, all the while never moving his gaze from her own. “I have a mattress I’d like to actually take home, now that the pests have been addressed. I’ll send you the divorce papers later, yeah?” Despite the situation, he had still managed to throw in a smug joke. He hoped that Victoire would take it as a hint, and drop the questions and his own existence. Though, considering the information he gathered about her thus far, he had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen.

To be completely honest, the moment he'd called her a half-breed any thoughts of what they'd just been through momentarily flit out the door. Victoire should have been feeling accomplished at the moment given she'd actually had her first encounter with a Dementor. And a Death Eater. But something about his blatant way of calling her out on her heritage just caused the fire within her to brew forth once more. Sure, she'd just called him out and made some judgmental remarks. In hindsight she might have realized that had been foolish. Plus, it wasn't like Victoire hadn't been called things before and maybe half-breed was a bit tame compared to things like Veela-slut. All the part-Veela knew was that she was bothered by the fact that the man before her might only consider her a half-breed and nothing more. Why did it matter? He was stranger. Breaking out of a muggle mattress store and fighting off a couple of dementors hardly made grounds for a friendship. A fake marriage, yes. A friendship? No. "Per'aps you should 'ave thought twice before marrying a 'alf-breed," the last word rolled from her lips in a near hiss indicating just how riled up she'd been by the comment. While she had every intention of possibly tossing another ball of flames into his direction she composed herself enough to not. If ticking her off only furthered to amuse him, she was going to attempt to keep her cool. Attempt being the operative word. The sound of her feet against the alleyway ground echoed for a moment as she seemed to stew in her silence. Victoire? Silent? A clearly indication her mind was working and she was annoyed. "Does it 'urt?" She blurted out, knowing full well that she was only provoking him, or at least attempting. Why it was such a tempting notion to push the Slytherin was beyond Victoire. She wasn't about to try and understand it, but give in to the desire to speak her mind. "You'd think I'd 'ave known what I was agreeing to when I said oui to your 'orrid proposal." Turning on heel she took hold of the sleeve of his sweater, drawing both herself closer to him as well as tugging the sweater down to reveal the remnants of the Dark Mark. She'd never seen one up close. Pictures in a History book could hardly compare to the scar that was left behind on Theodore Nott's skin. Genuine curiosity struck her as her brows furrowed together slightly. Her anger ebbed away for just a moment as the tips of her fingers brushed against the scars before she could give him any chance to recoil from her touch. Still within the alleyway the blonde realized that it probably was for the better that she'd just acted upon her daring impulse where no one else could cast judging eyes on the former Slytherin. Though her action had been committed out of anger she couldn't help the way her head cocked to the side in almost a childish manner as she regarded him carefully. Pale cerulean hues scanned over the rugged features of his face, taking careful note of the way he seemed to possess a history she could only ever wonder about. "I'm not a 'alf-breed," she spoke finally, her eyes narrowing once more hardening the features on her face that she hadn't even realized softened. "If I didn't think you'd dodge again...." Trailing off, lips pursing together in annoyance, any words she could have possibly pulled up were lost to her at the moment which resulted in her having to resort into being physical to showcase or purge her emotions. The palms of her hands, still slightly heated from the events that had played out before, rest flat against his chest as she shoved him, even huffing as she did so. It was often Victoire completely bypassed magic and used her strength and this just happened to be an example of that. Somehow Theodore Nott had managed to push more buttons than Victoire even knew existed for herself. "I get the bed in the divorce," she bit out too, as if she really were married to him and so attached to this bed that she didn't want to part with it. Honestly, all of this might have seemed a little childish, maybe even to Victoire, but she couldn't help it. She hated when she was purposefully riled up for amusement, she hated when people knew what buttons to push, and she hated the nonchalant manner in which Nott was able to achieve all of it. "Now, if you will excusez-moi, I broke mon 'eel so you're going to 'ave to walk slow. Unless you want the manager to think you left your darling wife be'ind a mattress or something in the shop."

And of course, she couldn’t just make things easy. She couldn’t have just gone her merry way to play with dolls or have makeovers with her friends or whatever it was someone of her age would do(clearly, he had no idea). His look of frustration turned to disbelief as he stood there, allowing the part-veela to examine his arm in a manner he deemed more personal then he would have cared for. “You, without a doubt, unbelievable—and I don’t mean that in a good way.” Though if he were truthful with himself he wasn’t sure if that last bit was even accurate. “Point a to b in less than two seconds,” he mumbled under his breath annoyingly. Finally, he addressed her question, ignoring whatever strange sensation her touch was causing him at the time. “To be blunt, I don’t remember.” He steadied his eyes on her, a hard look indicating how very uncomfortable he was with this close proximity both physical and that of his own details. The truth was still in his gaze though, he hadn’t been lying about not remembering. It nothing to do with how long ago it was but more with how he refused to remember. He wasn’t ashamed of the things he had done then. But thinking of that time included thinking of more personal matters. His family. When she asserted herself of not being a half-breed, he pulled his arm away, pushing his sleeve down once again with a snort. “I’m sorry, I must have mistaken you for those non-existent wizards who produce fire from their hands.” To be fair, he wouldn’t have known if this kind of thing was possible. He was probably setting himself up for correction, but whatever. Continuing on as a man of little words, he sighed annoyingly, his body moving slightly back at her push. He had no one else but himself to blame for his current situation. He had to go on and feed off the woman’s youth, play along with their charade to the very end. “You want my inheritance too?” his sardonic reply was followed by an eye roll when he heard the sound of her footsteps following his own. Clearly, she was as stubborn as he was. What was wrong with her? Didn’t she realize that now was probably the best time to leave? Either she was daft or far too brave for her own good. “I could have just explained that you left the stove on,” he mocked. He pushed the door open and with the same stealth he exercised earlier, they returned unnoticed. “Now, I’m curious. You going to follow this bed all the way to my house or ar yoo—uh hello.” The Manager of the store stopped in front of him, hand clapping together lightly. ”There you are, I thought I lost the two few you. ” He forced a smile, and wrapped his arms around Vicotire just as fast as the manager appeared. “The Misses had to use the lil girl’s room. Women, am I right?”

Keep me Alive by *yurixmeister

Damcat | Tainted Love