#setting: misc

James had a bad habit of slouching that he definitely, 100% blamed Sirius for. Before he’d met Sirius, James had been a truly upstanding member of society. Now look at him! He sighed dramatically, making a big show of slinging his legs off the couch and sitting up once the other person had finished talking. “I’m sorry, I genuinely didn’t listen to a single word of that. Can you please repeat it?”

kuzu’s ult form ref! this is a bit old so proportions are unfortunately a bit wonky but i’m still pleased with it!

Devereaux was running on pure adrenaline at this point. Keeping himself alive was one thing. He was quick. Good at making himself scarce. He’d shot spells, sure, but nothing fatal. He was here out of obligation, not passion. He would not have someone’s blood on his hands. 

Keeping René alive was a whole different beast. René moved unpredictably, without rhyme or reason. He didn’t watch his surroundings. Had it not been for Devereaux slashing panicked stunning spells through the air, René could’ve been dead several times over. That was how the battle progressed - until Devereaux had lost sight of his target. 

He’d been too slow. By the time the battle was over and he’d combed through corpse after corpse, fearing the worst, René had gotten hurt. Miraculously, they found each other. The soot-stained hands of an artist clutched the bloodied face of a musician as the former let out a string of chastisements. But he was alive. René was hurt, but alive. 

They couldn’t go to St Mungo’s. The Marks on their arms would earn them little sympathy in that moment. There was only one place that Dev could think of that would be safe for them both. He hooked René’s arm over his shoulders, both boys leaning heavily on each other as they stumbled through the broken streets until they found a safe place for Dev to apparate them away. When their feet hit the ground again, Dev slumped forward against the doorframe. The sound of their arrival was enough to alert the occupant. Seconds later, Laure’s face appeared. Relief spread through his tensed muscles. “Your brother is the biggest idiot I’ve ever met. Can we come in?”

When people thought about the effects of war, they only considered the obvious. The physical toll on people. The houses and businesses destroyed. No one thought about the logistical nightmare of thousands of scared wixen wanting to pack up their things and leave the country. If they were able to apparate, that was fine. But the harsh reality was that most people weren’t able to do that. They had families and children and fear - fear that disrupted the clear head needed to apparate yourself without splinching. 

So now Harrison sat with a stack of Portkey requests thicker than his arm and a diminished department to handle them. He rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger as he tried to troubleshoot the same problem he’d been sitting on for the last half hour. In the small patches of unobscured vision, he was aware of someone sitting opposite him. “Unless you have a solution for how to move half of London out of London without bringing attention to the mass exodus, I don’t have time for chitchat right now.”

“I’m ready!” Jack called out, standing in the middle of the pitch. He shot his teammate a thumbs up, then lowered himself into what could only be described as a goalie stance. The other person opened the team’s equipment chest and unclasped the bludger, letting it dart up into the air. It hovered for a second, choosing its target, and then shot itself squarely at Jack’s stomach. His arms wrapped around it as his feet left the ground, and then boy and ball were sent tumbling. It was only once he’d rolled onto his stomach again that he noticed his game of catch had a spectator. He grinned widely, yelling out. “Wotcher, Captain!”

It had been days. Weeks. Hours. Years. Since the battle. Rhys wasn’t sure. He’d lost track of time. He hadn’t been sleeping - but also, he had. There were days when he hadn’t gotten out of bed. And then there were nights where he didn’t go back to it. 

Celeste was gone. Missing. And though he’d been nowhere near the scene, though Celeste had always been her own person capable of her own choices, Rhys couldn’t help but blame himself. It had been his idea to come home to England. Maybe if they were still on the road, she’d be alive. 

No. No, she wasn’t dead. He refused to believe that. He was a magician, for fuck’s sake. He made things appear out of nothing and defied reality and read thoughts! If the audience believed hard enough, he escaped near death. Maybe if he believed hard enough, Celeste could too. 

He kicked at a piece of rubble, frowning down at it like it was the cause of all his troubles. Maybe if he read its mind, he’d see how it broke free from the building it had been a part of. His frown faded as realisation dawned upon him. He was a legilimens. He could read minds. Maybe if he reached out, he could find Celeste’s. He reached up to touch his scarf - one of Celeste’s, stolen from her closet - and closed his eyes. His mind opened, slowly expanding outwards as it searched for someone else to connect with. 

‘Come on, Celeste,’ he thought to himself, sending his will out ever further into the battered and broken streets around him. ‘Help me find you.’

Kimiko knew she’d led a pretty privileged life, but she’d never considered herself as being out of touch. Yet the more unrest grew in London, the more unrest grew in her own soul. She’d been the one to suggest bringing the band over here, and in doing so, she’d put them in danger. 

She stirred the silly little umbrella in her drink as she brooded. Misery loved company though, so it wasn’t long before she looked up and made eye contact with the person seated nearest to her. “Do you ever feel like you made a huge mistake leaving an old part of your life behind?”

Approaching strangers was not something that Jack shied away from. He pulled out the second chair at the solitary patron’s table and turned it around, plonking himself down backwards. He slid a glass of water towards them. “Sorry for the intrusion and all. Noticed you were eatin’ beans and I fough’ I’d warn you. My mate said tha’ if you eat too many and the conditions in your stomach are righ’, you’ll grow a plant in you and it’ll be righ’ cocked up.” He gestured to the water. “Tha’s why I drink at least two glasses’a saltwa’er a day. Keeps the conditions bad-like, and it tastes like the ocean.”