#ftprps

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?”

He missed the sounds of the kids running about the castle grounds. At first, breaks like this were welcomed. A time where he could catch up on some reading and pay those close to him the proper amount of attention he had always meant to show but had somehow managed to get caught up. As the days stretched on so did the uncommon calm and silence. It was around this time when he would start to become anxious about the return of his students. That simple attribute had set him apart from a lot of his other predecessors (with few other exceptions). The head of Slytherin house positioned himself behind the desk of his office. At the corner of the room was a record player emitting a constant tempo of jazz, filling the room with an excitement the atmosphere would have lacked without it. He had gone on a quick trip to Egypt earlier in the day, something made possible thanks to good old apparition. The difficult rune scripture he had been asked to translate lay before him on the wood of his desk, a relief copy which he had done with a simply piece of parchment and graphite. Off the bat, he could tell it would take some time to translate but he was eager to do something other than getting his lesson plans organized. Resting his elbows just beside each side of the parchment , his knuckles on his right grazed the spine of one of the books that was floating just beside it, spine opened to reveled it's mysteries. In fact, there were a number of opened texted floating around him. It was a charm that was commonly used by Erik Schrimgeour. It helped him investigate a number of books easily without the hassle of going back and forth. It was day time, but due to his office being in the dungeons, a fire was blazing in the fireplace to his left, the streaks of light adding emphasis to his locks of dirty blond. The fire must have been magical though, because the heat didn't seem to affect Erik who was wearing his trademark turtleneck. Then again, it was summer... and he was wearing his trademark turtleneck. Scratching at the scruff on his chin, he continued to work intensely until a low meow was emitted from the entrance of his office. What would have been his grey tabby cat, was instead a bright blue feline that pushed opened the wooden door. For a cat, it seemed more intelligent that most. At least, that's how she made it seem as she looked around behind her, before taking off in a dash to hide under his desk. It was instead a tactic to hide from the perpetrator who caused her discoloration. "Muffins," the tone of concern was something odd to hear from a man that looked the way he did. His features were rigid but if you heard him, looked into his green optics, anyone would know that was almost hardly the way his personality could be described. He loved a lot of good and wholesome things. He also loved his cat who seemed adamant about hide by the way she attempted to claw at his reassuring reach. There was only one reason any of this could have happened, one reason Muffins was acting the way she was. He knew that very reason would end with perusing his pray, perhaps looking to finish the job since the cat's tail was still a gloomy gray. "I've asked him a thousand times," he grumbled though the thought of the attacker was enough to minimize his annoyance for one of elation. Otto always seemed to have that affect on him. He'd probably get away with this little ordeal again, like he always did.

Blueberry muffins. Those little flakes of pastry goodness mingled with the perfect addition of those little purple fruits that Otto could never understand the name of. Blueberry? Why blue? They always dyed his fingers purple. But turning Muffins, Erik Scrimgeour's cat, into a purpleberry muffin didn't really seem like it would get the message across. What message? So, message might have been a wrong word to use. Honestly Otto Bagman (the III, as he's apt to remind people) just happened to love blueberry muffins and couldn't resist attempting to completely change the cat into his favorite kind. "Who ever heard of grey muffins anyway?" The Caretaker mumbled to himself in the empty hallways. When Summertime rolled around he often found himself needing something to keep him occupied. With the kids running around during the school year it was easy to find something to do, find something to tend to, anything to keep him concentrated and out of trouble. But Summer? That left him to his own devices like dying Erik's cat different colors. Was he really meaning any harm by any of it? Absolutely not. Anyone who knew Otto knew he was nothing but gentle. In fact, some people seemed to think he was rather slow and not all there when the opposite was true. "Muffins!" He hollered out, nearly tripping over the hem of his pants as he ran down the stoned hallway deeper and deeper in the castle towards the dungeons. Turning the corner rather fast, Otto nearly bypassed the doorway before he managed to literally stumble in, immediately looking around for the cat before focusing on the one man who could always make a rather ridiculously goofy smile cross over his features. "Oh. Um... I wasn't looking for Muffins, or anything. At all. Like that..." With a valid attempt at trying to keep a straight face, the former Gryffindor jammed his hands into his pant pockets, bright blue eyes reluctantly pulling away from the Slytherin before him. "Aren't you hot?" An eyebrow arched steadily as he moved further into the room. "I mean....wait, I didn't...." It wasn't that Otto got fumbled up with his words often or had a speech impediment, but between trying to look innocent combined with the natural effect Erik had on him, he wasn't all that good at focusing his attention on what he was saying. "At least it's a nice one. Have you seen Michael Phillip Christian Bagman? I swear Muffins took him from me..." It might not have been fair to blame the innocent cat but Otto did it as easily as a child would blame their sibling for something. "Have you seen him lately? Muffins. I swear, I was walking down the hallway minding my own business and then suddenly I see a blue trail dart around the corner and well... I don't know who would do such a thing." Despite the dim lighting down in the dungeons it was obvious there was a twinkle in the Bagman's eyes, perhaps it was something inherited by his Uncle - never really able to commit mischief without it being present. Sidestepping into the room a bit more, Otto sifted idly through the papers upon the desk, his body unconsiously moving in time to the soft jazz that was leaving the record player. "You're not working on that boring stuff again are you, Wiggy? It's Summer. Even if you're a Professor, you should be relaxing and doing fun stuff. Godric help me if you say that this is fun. It looks confusing. And....ancient. And....did I mention confusing?" Holding up what looked like chicken scratch, at least to him, the shorter man turned on heel with a lopsided goofy expression pulled across his rather young features. "Dying Muffins is more fun than -- I mean....." Clamping his mouth shut he tried to look as innocent as possible even if he knew without a doubt Erik already knew what he'd been up to.

The moment his menace arrived by the door he shook his head in an attempt to convey his disappointment in the man. Instead the message would have been confusing, as he was suppressing a smile that eventually broke its hold and allowed his teeth to shine. He leaned back in his seat, raising a hand so he could rest his index finger on his temple as he eyed the Gryffindor with a raised brow, listening to his excuse—er explanation. “Hmm, yes I wonder who would do such a thing?” He sneaked in a wink before addressing the Runes and text on his desk. “You should know me by now Toto” he used his own nickname for the man in retaliation for the Wiggy one, emphasizing it with a bit of a playful tone. “This is more fun for me than crocheting—which by the way, I finished that pillow case for you.” He sat up, eying the younger with a forced, stern expression. “I knew it was you, tsk tsk. Don’t make me put all those Weasleys in detention with you when school starts. I’ll do it. I’ll write’em up for, oh, I dunno… breathing.” At the end of his sentence he stood up, poking Otto’s nose with the tip of his finger. It might have been seen as a juvenile gesture but it was more a sign of affection from the man. “Chappy, give me a bit more credit, I think I know you’re work.” He gestured over to the cat who was still hiding under the table. “The dye job’s not even.” He chuckled, then wrapped an arm around the younger’s shoulder to point out the scriptures with his free hand. “They’re from Egypt, recently discovered. I can’t imagine how old they must be.” There was a tone of enthusiasm that anyone could have picked up from him. It was obvious he loved his line of work, perhaps more than some would. “Did you know there are dozens of deep caverns underground that most muggles don’t even know about? They’re incredibly beautiful and fascinating. Oh, and the runes!” Unsure of whether he was boring Otto he cleared his throat to finish off. “Well, I’d consider showing you myself if I was confidant in thinking you wouldn’t break anything.” He chuckled, returning both arms to his side as he made his way towards the record player. “Only a few more weeks,” he turned the knob on the side to decrease the volume emitting from the horn on the side. “The kids will return and you’ll have to try and set a good example again,” he did it again. He gave him that stern expression which once again fell short due to his more personal feelings. Erik had learned long ago in their school days that Otto wasn’t something he could fight and why would he? Erik didn’t always opt for what people thought was boring like runes, crocheting, and reading. He had a love for the eccentric too and Otto Bagman (let’s not forget the III) was the most eccentric person he had come to know. The last thing to have ever crossed his mind—if at all—was keeping away from him. “So no more torturing my cat, yes?” He didn’t know why he was asking. He’d find Muffins running back in, dyed whatever color Otto felt like bestowing on him that day. It’s just how it was and while he felt badly for the cat he couldn’t help but smile at Otto’s amusement by it. “Anyway, if you’re going to insist on hanging by my side then we should do something more appealing to the both of us.”