#mortem starter

“C’MON, get your lazy arse up -- we need to do dueling practice!!”

nadia normally wouldn’t be here----even under orders to gather intel (a waste, honestly, maybe three of the people present knew anything of real consequence)----but her brother had come, and she, admittedly, was reluctant to let him be around so many bombastic children of the order alone. and so there she sat, a table a bit away from the thrum of activity around the bar, her chair leaned against the wall to allow her a view of the place with no blind spots. a familiar face approached, and she scoffed at the drink in their hand, “i doubt anything this pub has can compare with what i’ve got at home. if only they’d chosen someone a little classier for their adolescent rebellion.”

she had finally, finally been able to get away from her parents after dinner; practically fleeing, she’d ended up at one of the bars her brother owned that her parents didn’t know about; one that served anyone, muggles and wizards alike (filthy money was still money, lloyd said). sitting at the bar, she absentmindedly spun the stirrer in her drink, the noise around her drowned out by her own thoughts, though she wasn’t so lost in her own head that she didn’t notice when someone took the seat next to her. “you know, people usually fucking ASK before they force their unwanted company on someone else. seat’s taken.”

Decades of war had left Muggle library archives in shreds. A pity, really, when considering what they once offered. Brent had kept his own collections tucked away, his volumes of Shakespeare and Henry David Thoreau and John Dewey gathering dust. They were kept under lock and key, in a compartment where all of his ideas lay idle. Discontentment clawing at Brent’s skin, he had sought momentary refuge at an abandoned library in the heart of London where the war had created demolition where booming businesses once stood. Fingers brushing over the spine of a book that was on the floor, one of the few who’s pages weren’t completely scattered or torn, he opened the book and began to skim over its contents. The condition of man is a condition of war of everyone against everyone. Without turning his attention to the cover, Brent recognized the words of Thomas Hobbes. Power, and the struggles for it, was rooted in every civilization that had eventually seen itself to its own ruin. What a shame that they were all subjected to the whims of Voldemort who’s story would undoubtedly end similarly, and they would become less than even footnotes in the telling of history. That was a far cry from the legacy Brent had intended to leave behind. 

Xavier was at home in the moonlight, his black hues capable of distinguishing figures even in the dark and enhanced hearing allowing him to know if anyone was approaching. It was due to his werewolf senses that he recognized the approaching person at once, his guard immediately up, hairs standing on end ( and not because of the cold ). “What–what are YOU doing here? I–I WASN’T doing anything if–if that’s what you’re wondering! I mean, uh–how’re you? Doing well, I hope?”

it probably wasn’t the wisest idea, but leda could always claim plausible deniability (how could she have known members of the order were going to this same bar?) and she’d never been one to turn down a night out on the town----even if that town were a village, it was easy to blend in with the many muggle students. walking----not stumbling, definitely not---up to the bar, leda reached out to grab the bartenders attention, accidentally bumping into the person in front of her, “oops, sorry, didn’t see you there----if i spy a good margarita, it gives me serious tunnel vision.”

"Don't fucking tell me we can't go out and look for them. Don't." Lucy could deal with many things: she'd borne everything, from their threadbare, quiet life to the roaring rush of lycanthropy, with a cheerful grin and a wink. But this—her grandmother, kidnapped, probably alone and terrified—this set her off like nothing else. "Let me find my grandmum," she said, voice calm but eyes wild.

it was cold, the wind almost stinging and nadia dug her hands further into the pockets of her cloak, shoulders raised with a tension that had been present for almost a fortnight. a crack behind her---someone stepping on a leaf, maybe a branch---alerted her to the fact that she was not alone, and she quickly ducked into one of diagon’s many side streets, wand already in hand as she turned to confront whoever happened to be behind her, “was there something you needed?”