#misfitmarlene

Constant vigilance. He ought to have kept his guard up, ought to have expected the eventual curious party who might sniff our their little community. (Besides the Death Eaters, who were another problem altogether.) Perhaps they were a soul from the nearby village-- not much of a threat. Perhaps they were something worse. Constant vigilance. When he'd heard the kids begin to murmur among themselves of their pale lady, their vanishing lady, their ghost in the night, he'd dismissed it as the collective works of one too many overactive imaginations left to stew in boredom day in and day out, much as he had the tales that there were selkies and mermaids and all manners of beasts ready to pull the unsuspecting underwater in the nearby ocean. Constant vigilance. This was all kinds of foolishness on his part; much as he repeatedly told himself he would start treating the lot of them more seriously, some stubborn portion of his mind demanded he take care of them, and somehow this had warped into not taking them all as seriously as he ought to have. Foolishness. He would not make the same mistake again.

It was sheer happenstance-- and perhaps that wasn't quite generous enough to explain it away, as in the mornings the lot of them were either coming off their evening shifts to sleep the better part of the day away or groggy enough from sleep to band together in small groups as if sheer numbers conveyed body heat that might help in coffee's absence (as alas, alas, they were out again, and who knew when they might be able to get more?)-- that lead him to overhear McKinnon regaling her nighttime adventure. That she was off chasing ghosts was of some small concern, though Moody couldn't always begrudge them their small flights of fancy when they had so little to look forward to; that she was off chasing ghosts alone, in the dead of night, and had discovered their ghost seemed more tangible than they all assumed, left the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

Constant vigilance. Someone was scoping out their camp that none of them had been good enough to catch. Magic, then-- they had to be to evade their watchful eyes for so long. To make matters worse, McKinnon might have just blown their entire cover wide open, and regardless of whether she had or had not, she'd put herself unnecessarily in danger to satisfy her curiosity. Stupid. Dangerous. He thought she was smarter than that-- assumed, and didn't that make a ass of him then?

Past the ache in his back and in his bones, the end result of one too many nights spent sleeping in poor conditions when he could hold fast to the idea of sleep at all, a distinct, spreading warmth bloomed through his belly. Anger. Moody was more than passing acquaintances with his temper and recognized it fondly as it greeted him then, background noise to his narrowing of nearly-black eyes fixed on McKinnon retreating from her eager audience to excuse herself to her cottage. Tired from her nighttime flight, perhaps.

He had a hard time finding sympathy for her just then.

Tennessee Mud: an alcohol, drunkenness, intoxication headcanon.

Neither of them kept track how many nights were lost to a bottle (or three) shared between them as they shot the shit and did whatever it took to keep their minds off of the horrors of the world breathing a sickly sweet scent their way whenever nervous eyes wandered toward the line of wards protecting the cluster of cottages. It was much easier to pretend they were safe, they were secure, that no one who wished them harm would ever find them with a sufficient amount of booze humming along their veins and drowning out the screaming threats the rest of the world offered them.

To that end, they began to find new ways to make their odd evenings more eventful, if only to draw out the bliss, if only to sweeten the deals. Challenges. Games. I’ll if you passed between them as easily as the drinks. Though what they did could never be counted as sacred, they were good at keeping it to themselves, a private ceremony others simply weren’t invited to share.

One night they kept especially private, having decided between themselves that they would never utter aloud what had transpired behind the crumbling walls of cabin six.

The nights since the explosion rocked their perimeter were marked by little sleep, plenty of tooth grinding, and hooded eyes cast toward the woods as the question of what and why plagued him despite his best efforts to move past it. Noises like that didn't happen every day, and that they had found nothing after only served to unsettle him further as time stretched on. It became an obsession, like an itch just between his shoulder blades he couldn't quite scratch; he needed to know, and yet no amount of investigating or doubling night shifts or reminding the kids, time and time again, that they needed to be on guard yielded any answers.

A week in, it was driving him insane.

It was due to all of this that he knew he oughtn't be drinking, even more-so than usual. (A rule he wasn't fool enough to believe anyone actually followed.) Alcohol was appealing, especially so when it promised a respite from the current worries threatening to burrow beneath his skin and eat him alive like so many maggots, and thus, being a reasonable man who prided himself on that very attribute, he hid his flask from himself and soldiered through the days unhappily sober but sufficiently clear headed. His plan worked well-- until McKinnon set the bottle down in front of him with a hearty clink. His fate was sealed then, when, upon refusing her very insistent offers, she'd dismissively told him he couldn't outdrink her anyway.

It was a character flaw: Alastor could never turn down a challenge. Something in his blood demanded he answer any test thrown his way, and while life had taught him it was best to rig the odds in his favor as best as he could, as often as he could, at the end of the day, one of the easiest ways to manipulate him had always been, and he feared always would be, a simple uttered challenge.

As such, he'd met her eyes and muttered a fierce, “you're on.” Things had not gone well ever since.

Never mind the fact the pair of them had arranged themselves on the dusty floor of cabin six and were passing the bottle of what tasted closer to rubbing alcohol than any drink fit for human consumption back and forth; these most inglorious of conditions were simply a way of life in a makeshift village where salt and sand worked their way between your every crevice and into every nook, in a place where if you could scrape off all the mold on your food, you knew you were having a good day. No, the estimation that things weren't going well came from the fact that Marlene was still conscious, and still pushing him to drink more when he was already on the verge of seeing doubles of everything. His head and the world around him spun with far more vicious glee than it ever ought to be described as spinning with, and the fact that a woman much younger and much smaller than he wasn't yet calling it quits was worrisome.

He knew his ability to tuck back drinks. A certain tolerance for alcohol, like their shared occupation, tended to come with the surname of 'Moody.'

Using one of the thread-bare and singularly uncomfortable chairs as a backrest, Alastor narrowed his eyes as he watched Marlene for several long moments. His silence was abruptly broken as he slapped the floor with both palms and sat up. “Ye aren't drinkin' at all! Ye call that a pull? S'barely a sip an' ye ken it!” He was deathly determined to make sure she understood well that yes, he could in fact drink her under a table any day of the week and she would do well to remember it; he, as a responsible, mature, and functional adult, simply chose not to.

It was damp, and the bread had begun to mould. 

In one dark corner a mouse had committed to the last of the cheese, sniffing the clammy air between chews, furry snout raised to the ceiling. Moody mightn't be happy with her for it later, but Mary hadn't the heart to chase it out. (Would it have a burrow to return to if she did? It was cold outside, and she wasn't sure it was fit for mice just yet. Perhaps he might bring some of the cheese back to his family, later when she left. She hoped it would. She hoped it would not be selfish.) They could all go without cheese for a few more weeks, surely. It wasn't as if there'd been much there to start with.

So the supply room was damp, the bread had begun to mould, and the mouse was eating the cheese. And the meat was running low. And there was no more fruit.

And Mary thought that perhaps that was what she missed the most. The crunch of an apple, crisp against her teeth, mango juice sliding down her chin and kiwi stains on newly-pressed shirts. They were warm, these memories, and with them came thoughts of golden sunsets and sticky summer nights, of Before. Silly, she thought, because it was just fruit. It was funny how those little things seemed to affect them so now.

This protection lark was all very well, thought Gwenog, but when it came down to it, was it really any good if it actually obstructed their freedom, rather than preserved it? She was tired of being trapped inside her own head; tired of listening to tangled introspectives; tired of being trapped inside the village. Yes, it was for their own good. But really, it didn't feel like it was doing anything at all: Gwen was all about instant satisfaction and her clouded head certainly wasn't giving anything on that front.

In such restless cases as these, Gwenog usually found that sex did the trick. Failing that, alcohol. Unfortunately, she had yet to achieve either due to the order restrictions (whether explicit or not). Her limbs - coiled as tight as the curls in her hair - needed stretching and her mind need oblivion, so she weighed up her options: considering the thin walls of the cottage, slipping her hands into her knickers might be a little unfair on the other tenants that were home. There was only one thing for it. It was time to break some rules and let the sea air flush out her lethargy. 

Vampire: Someone offers you a chance at immortality. Do you take it, and why or why not? 

That’s very tempting, especially in the world like it is today. But I believe that things happen for a reason, and that life and death isn’t something that we can control. I would much rather live my life to the fullest now, than know I have eternal life.

Werewolf: If you had to spend your life with just one person, who would it be?

When I figure out who that person might be, I’ll be sure to let them know. In the mean time, I’ll keep on enjoying my own company.

Witch: If you could change one thing about the world, what would it be? 

Supply more Firewhiskey to everyone.

Ghost: Do you have any regrets? 

FAERIE: If you could get away with anything, what would you do? 

If, by that, you mean the sorts of things I could do without dying or being turned, I have to say that my greatest ambition is to collect enough books to make the library I have dreamed of owning since childhood. I've never had the funds to purchase all that I want, and the thought of all the books, left abandoned, their owners either fled or infected, makes my mouth water.

Was it wrong that she knew so little about the Blackpool incident?

It wasn't for want of trying - after news had reached the Manor, she'd all but swept down to Hogsmede, intent on getting the true story come hell or high water. What hadn't expected was the ruin left in its wake. Those involved had come back dirty and bloodied, exhausted from the fray. Jones and Snape barely let anyone near the infirmary, or so Narcissa understood, as the condition of the survivors was... Well, she didn't want to think about that. During the war, there had been bodies in the foyer; bodies in the dining room, suspended, dripping. Empty eyes and red hands and missing limbs. Mannequins; nothing more. She screened the Dark Lord's victims as any noble lady would do. They were not sights for her to see.

This time it was different. Hard it was for her to admit, but those who lived outside of the Manor were now - they meant something. Even if it were a little something. She would never join in their raucous jaunts into the wilderness; could never delight in blowing apart a child. This had become another form of warfare, one that was an unfortunate necessity, even for someone like her. There were more important things at stake. Last night she had played with Draco for hours, lost in his soft skin, those silver eyes, his growing grin. He could pull himself up on things now, little legs wobbling. Andromeda had laughed herself silly when he fell over backwards. 

Narcissa was never one for grand announcements, but she ardently wished others could see this new war as she did. It was no longer about sides, about being the Dark Lord's puppet. It was about life. That was their only commodity left.

As she hurried through the growing twilight, Narcissa pulled her cloak more tightly around her. The gloom was heavy as velvet, winter rising with its icy fist. The buildings were chilled but quaint; at the end of the street, the pub was in full swing. Laughter spilled into the evening.

Three, two... One street down, the last alleyway on the right. This pseudo-espionage was frankly ridiculous, though when she'd first written to McKinnon, she had an idea that this was the way it must be. If not for McKinnon's safety than her own. Merlin knew what Bellatrix's response would be when she found out about - 

Narcissa ducked into the cavernous dark, reaching out to grasp the bricked wall lest she slip on the snow-rain sludge. Her breath clouded before her; she could barely see a meter ahead. She'd left Draco at home, safe in Andromeda's care, but belatedly she wondered if this were a tactical error. When she'd met Marlene previously, she'd only had eyes for Draco. Without him as a shield, would she consider Narcissa with the same level of respect?