πππππππππ: πΉππππππ’ πΈπΊππ, π·πΏπΎπΈ
π»πππππππ: πΆπππππβπ π·πππππ π·πππππππππππ, βπππ π ππ ππππβ
π°πππππππππππ’: π²πππππ πππΒ @the-shackled-king
The room was a haphazard mess of articles taped to the windows, documents strewn in messy piles, coffee cups in various states of emptiness. There was something familiar about the mess, he always worked better in chaos, or as he liked to call itΒ βorganisedβ chaos. Heβd called a meeting with Kingsley, if felt awfully formal for them. Thereβd been a time when he would have simply barged into the other manβs quarters and spoken his mind freely, but it almost felt as though they were back to square one these days.
Alastor was the last person to judge a person by who their parents were- or had been. It had taken him months to trust Kingsley in those early days, not really because of who his father had been but rather because of his family name. Heβd given the other auror a wide berth over the last couple of weeks. Part of him hoped that the stagnancy would shake the other man into answering that call to action that fuelled Alastor. With the vigil happening tomorrow, he found that their time was running out, they needed a plan. As he waited for the other man to join him, he began to sift through the latest correspondence theyβd received from inside the ministry. More missing persons, moreΒ βrandomβ attacks. It was getting worse.












