#silrp:task

Minerva stood at the head of the table, fingertips delicately balanced on its surface, carefully making eye contact with each of the faces looking up at her. “I’m not suggesting anything that hasn’t been done before.” She reminded them firmly. The other professor’s eyed her warily, some nodding in agreement, others wearing skepticism plainly on their faces. “Our first priority must be the safety of our students. No one is saying they are prisoners, but we can’t allow them to freely wander in and out of Hogsmeade when hate crimes are being committed in broad daylight. This is a simple matter of safety.” Standing up to her full height she lifted her hands in an open gesture, “If we don’t stand up for our students, who will?” She concluded. A murmur went through the crowd as she took her seat. 

There was a pause before voices erupted across the room, learned witches and wizards falling into squabbles like the children they taught. “Not our place!” “She makes a point, Binns, and if you can’t see it then you must be-”  “It’s fear mongering and we can’t give in to their tactics!”  “What happens when a student is killed by one of these Death Eaters?”  “Werewolves have been running rampant, Mary!” 

The heads of houses and various other professors soon found themselves on their feet, each disagreeing louder than the next. Finally a voice rose from the crowd, “Where is Dumbledore?” It roared. Silence fell over the room. Again, Minerva stood, carrying as much authority as she could muster. “The Headmaster is away on business. As newly appointed Deputy Headmistress, I have been left in charge.” Secretly proud of herself as her voice didn’t shake, she remained standing this time. She had questioned Dumbledore’s decision as much as anyone in the room, but unfortunately the man wasn’t know for taking other’s suggestions into account. 

“And what will we do when their parents come knocking, demanding to know why we’re holding their children hostage?” hollered a voice from the other end of the room. 

Without attempting to discern the owner, Minerva replied, ❝ Confrontation is nothing new to me. ❞ Another murmur passed through the crowd. “Until the headmaster returns and contradicts me, my word is final.” She lifted her chin, making eye contact with as many people as possible. “Safe and unhappy is better than dead.” She spoke in a voice that declared the matter closed. 

“Meow.”

“We’re not having this conversation again.”

“Prrrow.”

“Come off it. I’ll hear enough of that come morning. How about you try your hand at being supportive for once?”

A reproving “Prrrpt… mew,” whined up at him as the cat slinked across his shin, weaving around his leg and back again. Ser’s purrs were so loud the cat was vibrating. He peered up at him with those amber eyes, seeing more than a cat had any right to.

Edgar kicked out the chair and, gripping the table, tried to ease himself into it. His ribs and abdomen immediately protested the movements and he gracelessly dropped himself the rest of the way with a groan. Wincing, his grip on the table’s edge tightened as he endured the throbbing ache of the various injuries he’d sustained earlier that evening. Merlin’s balls, the night could’ve gone better.

Cracking his eye open, Edgar spotted the bottle of firewhisky he’d brought to the table. An arm hugged around his middle, cradling his ribs as he reached over the wooden surface, grabbed the bottle by its neck and dragged it close, grunting through gnashed teeth. The accompanying glass also skidded to a stop in front of him. Unscrewing the cap, he poured himself a generous amount and gulped down the whisky like its alcohol content had healing properties.

The near empty glass landed on the table with a clunk before Edgar poured himself another healthy dose of couldn’t-be-better. He breathed slowly to let the alcohol start to take affect, and also because his ribs bloody hated him and anything more than the shallow in and out hurt like hell. Chair still angled out, away from the table, Edgar’s absent stare at the hardwood beneath his feet was interrupted by the house-lion of a cat that took up post in front of him.

Ser stared at him with those flamey sunrise eyes, and he could see the wheels turning behind them. Body already tensing, Edgar’s arm lifted away from his chest so that he could hold a hand out to halt the big furball in his tracks. “Don’t even think about it, mate. You’re a metric ton of fluff and I’m--” Ser jumped up and landed right on Edgar’s chest. He finished his sentence with a wince and whimper. “Beat to shit. But, by all means, come on up.”

It hurt to laugh but he couldn’t help the sound as a grated chuckle bubbled up from his lungs. The oversized stuffed snow leopard was still purring violently as he rubbed his face against Edgar’s, who hissed and cringed at the flares of pain that shot off with the contact. Grumbling affectionate curses at the cat in his lap, Edgar’s smirk was faraway as he stroked his soft pelt then scratched his chin.

He could’ve died tonight. All things considered, how the night’s events had unfolded were as ‘best case scenario’ as it got. Edgar didn’t really consider himself a particularly fortunate bloke but, without a felix felicis, the only explanation for having survived the night with his hide in tact was dumb luck. Blast it all to hell, he was going to get an earful in the AM. There’d be a queue outside his door waiting to get a lick in for being stark raving mad.

With a shake of his head, Edgar stroked up to the soft tufts at the tips of Ser’s ears and sighed. “You going to help patch me up or just supervise?” When Ser goggled up at him, all unblinking and vainglorious, he hummed unsurprisingly at the cat. “I could do with a little less criticism from you, mate.”

After leaning in as far as his aching body would allow, Edgar pecked the cat between the ears. He planted his feet squarely on the ground then lifted his hips along with the maine coon up off of his seat with a grunt, fishing his wand out from his pocket. Once he settled with a sigh again, Ser was back to scrubbing their cheeks together while Edgar magicked his medical kit out from the cabinet in the loo and onto the table.

His many attempts to get Ser either onto the ground or the table were met with stubborn protest. The too-large-to-be-a-house cat kept jumping right back into place, and he’d fought enough for one night; persisting on a losing battle would take more energy than he had left.

Edgar had to work around the cat that refused to be parted from his lap. With the help of a mirror he cleaned out his cuts, smeared a healing poultice on them, then secured gashed flesh with butterfly bandages. All while Ser continued to purr like an engine working double time, curled up into a tight ball, comfortable as only a cat could be.

Even as he tended to his wounds, Edgar knew that he’d need to send Ted an owl the next morning. There was more damage than he could fix on his own and going to St. Mungo’s would ask too many questions he couldn’t answer. Better another Order member piece him back together than a Healer who’d have to record his injuries and their obviously made up causes.

As the adhesive of the last bandage stuck into place Edgar flopped back in his seat and slouched down against its back. His head fell back and he stared up at the ceiling, absent-mindedly stroking Ser while his thoughts circled back to the night’s events. The feeling that hollowed out his chest with the night’s memories wasn’t so much regret as it was an inexplicable kind of shame.

Shame not in having done the right thing, but in having strolled headlong into danger, knowing the odds were stacked high against him, without so much as calling for backup. He hadn’t thought, not about himself, not about the consequences, not about the people he loved or what he was fighting for. Edgar had seen them, their black robes and sharp hoods, metallic masks obscuring their faces, and he’d acted on impulse.

No. That was a lie, too. Edgar had acted in anger. Righteous, resolute, single-minded fury. Not on rotation to patrol tonight, he’d decided to take the scenic route home for the fuck of it. Somewhere along the way he happened upon them, a group of Death Eaters, tucked in the shadows of an alleyway as a muggle fumbled with their keys while closing up shop for the night. They’d waited for him to pass in front of the alley then done a snatch and grab.

Edgar had sprinted across the street after them, blood simmering at what he’d find in those shadows. The cowards outnumbered the muggle five to one. Even without their wands it wouldn’t have been a fair fight. But the tossers weren’t looking for fair, they were looking for easy and Edgar hated them for it. He didn’t know how he made it out of that alleyway with his life, much less in one piece. All he knew was that the aurors had five Death Eaters gift wrapped and ready for pick up when he disapparated his battered arse back home.

He’d been reckless and it’d almost cost him. There was a time when that might not’ve mattered so much, but Amelia still counted on him. And Xeno... lovely, beautiful, distracted Xeno. Who would protect them, care for them, better than he did? Well, there were probably a few people who could care for them better than him, but none would do so more passionately.

A younger version of himself had wanted to save the world and, years of countless mistakes later, his adult self still wanted to make a difference. As he held Ser’s face between his hands, thumbing over the cat’s whiskers, he mused that while he was busy saving the world, “Tell me, who’s gonna save me from myself?”

Ser’s eyes parted to reveal his sharp, intelligent gaze. The cat bobbed his head between Edgar’s hands, chirping a quiet, “Prrbpt,” in reply.

❝ I took my shot and made it in ❞

The bracelet, innocuous but for its rich materials and charmingly archaic design, was burning a hole through Rabastan’s pocket. Stealing priceless and wildly dangerous artifacts out from under the Ministry’s nose wasn’t hard, per se, but the risk was monumental. And therein lay the draw.

When it came down to it, this, the swap of his decoy, was undoubtably the easiest part of the game. After all, the process of preparation had been a long one. It had been weeks since Rodolphus had first made the offhanded suggestion that the latest trinket Rab had been commissioned to defang could be an enjoyable addition to their repertoire, weeks that had been interrupted by the poisoning and Rabastan’s stay in St. Mungo’s, followed by weeks in which he flung himself into the task with renewed vigor. But that didn’t matter. His dealings with Dearborn, who had been more than happy to pull of a theft of his own to secure the gems Rab needed for the decoy, didn’t matter. Nor did the all the time Rabastan had spent meticulously constructing a duplicate of an ancient bracelet, a duplicate that would- he was sure, with a certainty that might have been cocky had it not been backed up by skill- pass the Ministry’s inspection. All that mattered now was the thrill of the deception, the satisfaction of his work paying off, and the anticipation of the potential the real bracelet had. 

Now all Rab had to do was steal the thing. 

Rabastan strode through the Ministry as if its halls were those of the Lestrange Manor, their familiarity his birthright. The Ministry, after all, was far from unfamiliar to him. And, in turn, the building and its occupants were far from unfamiliar with him. There had been a number of witches and wizards carrying the name Lestrange in the seat of the Minister of Magic over the years, and even more holding positions with much more influence, albeit a quieter sort of power. And though he hadn’t been directly under the Ministry’s employ for years now, Rab was not an uncommon presence there. Rab had had years to learn the Ministry’s halls. They showed in the ease with which he walked, one hand half-tucked in a pocket, the other swinging, his smile wide and charming as he nodded and exchanged greetings with those who passed by. He’d asked after a dozen spouses and commented on two dozen choices in ties, or shoes, by the time he reached the Improper Use of Magic Office. 

The receptionist started as if wrenched out of half-sleep by Rabastan’s entrance, glancing around as if to check if anyone was lurking disapprovingly in the background, “Mr. Lestrange! Hello, welcome back to the Improper Use of Magic Office. Can I help you with anything today?” The words came out in a cadence that betrayed the fact that they had no doubt been hammered into his head since the moment he was hired for the job. Rab had heard more or less the same spiel every time he set foot in the offices to study or tinker with the cursed bracelet that had, through a series of convoluted events involving terribly dull bureaucracy and poor filing, ended up in their possession. 

Rab shot the kid a smile, tone dipping into something conspiratorial and vaguely amused, “Not to worry George, after today I’ll be out of your hair- should be done with the finishing touches within a quarter of an hour or so.” The kid had shown more interest in the curse breaking that Rabastan had been called in to do than most of his superiors. Which was ideal in a number of ways. “I’ll just go on through now.” It was not a question. Rab was already walking past George at his desk as he said it, leaving the boy no option but to watch helplessly as he strode by, and on down the hallway. 

The room set aside for Rab’s work had probably originally been a closet or some sort or another, magically expanded when the nature of the bracelet they’d uncovered made itself known, and secured up and down with countless wards and spells. The vast majority of them had been erected by Rabastan himself. The Ministry really made things pitifully easy for him. 

Getting into the room was a matter of a couple of minutes of tripping spells and poking holes in the wards, a process that only took as long as it did due to the sheer number of precautions set in place to keep people out. The department had, it turned out, been less than keen to see a repeat performance of one of their members’ wrist being nearly severed as the cursed item constricted with a slow and relentless force. Rab reached forward and turned the knob- utilitarian and blankly grey against the wood of the door-, pushing it open and stepping inside. 

Evidence of the room’s previous life as a closet remained: wire shelves shoved into a corner, buckets and a pile of rags perched on the top shelf, a table with a lopsided leg and a number of pots of ink stacked on top. But it didn’t look like a closet any more. Stretched out to accommodate any sort of runes Rabastan might find a need to employ, as well as space to move and facilitate an amount of preliminary research, the room rivaled most offices in the Ministry in terms of size. Aside from the few remaining odds and ends from its days a closet, the room was sparsely furnished. Two chairs were pushed against one wall, one with multiple books stacked on its seat, while more books were piled in haphazard and seemingly random stacks throughout the room. And, at the center, a small table housed a thick golden cuff, inlaid with glistening gemstones, and, noticeable now that Rabastan had spent so much time picking apart its mysteries (and yet there was still so much left to learn) pulsing with a malignant sort of magic. 

Rabastan locked the door behind him with a lazy flick of his wand and walked directly up to the table on which the bracelet rested, curse decidedly unbroken, looking down at it with a smile that bordered on giddy. He’d spent weeks researching the thing, doing as much as he could to discern the nature and origins of the curses layered upon it through Ministry-sanctioned methods. The opportunity to find out what it was really made of was practically at his fingertips. 

The decoy was out of his pocket within moments, perched on the edge of the table at a deliberately measured distance away from the cursed object. Joining it soon after was a fine wooden box- charmed and etched with runes to a perhaps obsessive degree- which Rab flicked open. All it took were a handful of muttered spells and Rab had levitated the cursed bracelet into the box and snapped it shut, listening for the click of the lock, and shifted the decoy bracelet into the original object’s place on the table. The change was indiscernible. He considered shrinking the box, but then, for all his research this wouldn’t be the first time a curse had reacted poorly to a seemingly harmless spell like a shrinking charm, and it couldn’t hurt to be cautious. Rab tucked the box away in his robes and patted them down as if to tidy his appearance regardless of the fact that nothing had happened to rumple it in any way. A turn on his heel gave him a view of the room, again, seemingly unchanged from when he had walked in. Good. Rab cast a few of his go-to spells in curse breaking for good measure, aiming them at the decoy bracelet where they would have no effect beyond appearing on his wand in case of a priori incantatum spell.

And then he wandered over to the chair shoved against the wall and sat down with a lazy, idle grace, scooping up a book from the chair opposite. Rabastan's heist, the product of weeks of preparation, was over and done with in a matter of minutes. The real test would be in the coming days, when he was scheduled to hand over the supposedly uncursed and benign artifact to the head of the department, therefore truly putting his duplicate to the test. But Rabastan, paging through the book to the section he had left off on last, was patently unconcerned by that prospect. As far as he was concerned, the affair was a matter of the past.

Laying in the silence waiting for the sirens Signs, any signs I'm alive still I don't wanna lose it

“You’re a disgrace. To your blood line, to us, to the wizarding world.”

His father’s abuse had been going on for the better part of the afternoon. Since he’d arrived home for Christmas to find that news about his adventures at Hogwarts had reached his ears. Talk of not pulling his weight, of not acting the way one of his class and stature ought too, of not getting high enough grades, of not finding a suitable pure blooded bride to marry the minute he graduated...

Caradoc, ever the dutiful son, sat back and let his father lay it all out. It was his standard feel-good past time. Like taking pieces out of his one and only offspring was exactly the kind of shit he lived for. He was well versed in the saying, water off a ducks back. Arguing never got him anywhere, his father wasn’t going to listen to what he had to say, didn’t care that Caradoc’s view of the world was different to his own. 

All he knew was that his son had to shape up or face the consequences.

I'm not getting through this Hey, should I pray, should I fray To myself, to a God, to a saviour who can

“You’re out”

The words sliced through the thick haze that filled Caradoc’s mind whenever a rampage such as this occurred, they were out of the ordinary... something he never thought he’d hear him say. “I’m what?” Out? “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

There was a kind of fury to his father’s face he’d never seen before, and would never forget. The way his skin had turned red and his eyes seemed swollen from the rage yet his tone and movements were calm as an undisturbed lake. “You heard me, I want you out of this house... out of this family.”

The revelation had Caradoc recoiling in shock. Of all the things his father had said, he’d never have imagined this. “You can’t do this to me, where am I supposed to go?! It’s Christmas Eve, Father...” but he didn’t care, and Caradoc didn’t realize as he was walking out the door that evening, that it’d be the last time he’d speak to his parents or step foot in his family home again... 

Unbreak the broken Unsay these spoken words Find hope in the hopeless, pull me out the train wreck 

A fist had Doc spiralling out of the past and connecting back with the present. Blood was dripping from a now split lip as it curled into a harsh grin. “Is that all you’ve got, McTavish?” The enforcer was coming at him hard and fast, connecting another fist with his sternum. The only reason the shots connected was because Caradoc allowed it. He was after the wrong man, Dearborn didn’t have what Tarquin was looking for...

But it didn’t matter. The pounding made him feel alive in a way nothing else could. Pain was his adrenaline, he sought it out like a crack addict desperately searching for a dealer. Every beat down reminded him of the only one that had ever truly hurt him. The verbal kind his father had given him the day they turned their backs on him. 

People were like putty. They were easy to mould when it came to matters of the heart, easy to catch hook, line and sinker when it came to what needed to be said, how it was said and how they felt.

Feelings, in relation to this, were disgusting. Why? Because they were lies, because they shrouded people’s opinions and convinced them that they had a heart, that they actually caredwhen the truth was that love was consumed by the eyes and was relentlessly undevoted to the heart. Anyone would’ve told you that they experienced ‘love at first sight’ weren’t lying- the eyes were the gateway to the soul, once somebody saw somebody they thought was physicallyattractive then their genitals and what they assumed were their ‘hearts’ followed. In Emma Vanity’s opinion? The good things somebody saw? They were only projected because they assumed you were physically attractive in the first place. There wasn’t such thing as ‘matters of the heart’. Two people could be perfect in regard to personality, but if the selfish prat didn’t find you attractive then nothing would come of it.

The truth, and Emma knew this more than anyone, was hard to swallow.

Of course, she couldn’t relate to this in the most normal of standpoints- most of her perspective came from a tunnel of physical relationships; relationships clouded by vindictiveness and made sweeter by possible revenge and closure. Her physical beauty assisted in helping her get what she wanted, although the measly hole left where her heart used to be made her brain think that there was definitely something missing.

Perhaps, as she so bitterly exposed, she was all image and no clout.

That would explain a lot of things.

The image reflected in the vanity in front of her seemed lost- it was different to the image of the girl she once remembered, the girl with fire in her eyes and love in her heart. No, she was there for a reason, ready to manipulate hearts at a moment’s notice, ready to use her beauty like the deadly edge of knife. She’d let the silk of her robe roll down over her shoulders, hands warming up the cream which she so meticulously placed over her body. She enjoyed the way it looked, the way it melted into her skin and gave her a pearl-like glow. The figure behind her seemed to enjoy it too.

He was a funny man, high-up in the background of the Quidditch world. Emma often fought with herself, tried to remember that she got here through sheer talent; certain situations made these concepts hard, warped her brain beyond thinking logically- this was one of them. Her head tilted pensively, neck tilting slightly at the feel of warm lips against her shoulder- her eyes glanced lazily towards him, eyebrows furrowing gently at his next words.

    “We can’t do this anymore.”

She had, of course, been expecting the day to come- she’d even been yearning for it, if she was to be truthful. Moments like this made relationships come to life- made things change in ways that were unimaginable.

    “Why? Did I do something wrong?” The concern was deft in her eyes, but he seemed to be too busy grazing her body to notice the dullness and lack of concern that she was displaying. He’d seemed to pull himself out of it, at least for a moment, a swift shake of his head proving otherwise. “I just thought we were doing so well.”

He was a powerful man, and powerful men didn’t enjoy having liabilities such as herself. She knew there was still some progress that she needed to get up to before she was finished with him. Was it cruel to do this to someone? Yes, but these situations only evened the playing field. What damage did her body do, in exchange for some information? He’d come out of it relatively unharmed- well, that was if he co-operated.

    “It’s not you…” Ofcourseit wasn’t. “Times are just tough- there’s pressure from all angles.” She wasn’t sure whether he was talking about a quidditch play or trying to pull reasons out of thin air. “I just think it’d be the best for both of us.”

She didn’t have to think about many things in order to get the tears to well up in her eyes. It was a sick fact, that was for sure, but she always somehow seemed to use the skill relentlessly when it came to these things.

     “If you really think so.” Her voice was curt, eyes moving to the floor, tracing the patterns of the rug under her feet.

     “Hey- you’ll be fine…”

A sigh had expelled from her lips, a laugh breaking through the brim of tears and allowing a stray one to caress down her cheek.

     “I know- it’s just hard… because-“ Her breath hitched. She really should’ve won ‘Most Valuable Player’ for this. “I’m mainly sorry that somewhere along the way, I started to care about you.”

His eyes had softened and glancing up at him she knew she had him.

Gideon Prewett liked to think that he was the future. What else could he have been? He’d excelled at most things in his life, pushed past other people (old and new) and had gotten himself into a pretty prominent position in his field of work. That classified as being the future if there was anything to go by, at least in his own, very humble, opinion. He knew that some people would think otherwise, that Fabian would’ve huffed and scoffed (albeit lovingly) in his face at the very words, but it didn’t bother the man- he knew where he stood and he knew how important his role was in this very world.

There was, of course, some dichotomy between being the future and some of the waysthat he’d often found himself doing his job. This classification also applied in other aspects of life; case in point, Gideon wasn’t one to be overjoyed at new flavours and mixes of firewhiskey, in his eyes things that were so good and did their job didn’t need to be replaced and remixed; keeping them at bay and in their rightful glory was to give them the proper respect that they needed. Voicing those opinions in a bustling bar, of course, was never the answer. Gideon Prewett was smart enough to know that much, but also stupid enough to completely ignore that idea all at the same time.

He'd found himself reclining against the mahogany of the bar, eyes busily scanning the people whose celebrations of the latest Harpies victory had begun to spill its way in. In an instant he knew that it’d make busy work of Edgar and although he took a solemn minute to mourn the poor basterd, he did find some entertainment in seeing the business fly him off the seat of his pants. The one thing that he was thankful for was the lack in presence of Madame Rosmerta, especially when tensions were heightened. Gideon always thought that her fiery misdemeanour was only further aided by the red hair which she had- Molly had the same as well, and he figured it stemmed from deep within. A fiery heart meant red hair, a warning to those who dared come close. It was probably Merlin’s funny way of letting everyone know, to warn them that to love someone with such a complexion was asking for the heat of fire- maybe redheads represented a dragon core in a world which seemed full of ice.

That was probably why the heavy hand on his shoulder had caused the guy to look up, a burly man standing over him that probably had too much to drink. He had previously been laughing at the situation before him, unbeknownst to the observation that he had become a part of. As he’d slowly stood, his eyes scanned the man.

    “Yer supportin’ the Irish?” He’d begun, breath heavy with the smell of whiskey. Gideon had to stop his eyes from tearing, had to fight to keep his eyes, cold as stone, on the man and to stand his ground. A shit-eating grin had made its way to grace his lips, head tilting in such a way that it could only cause annoyance. “Oh I see- you think it’s a joke? The Harpies kickin their arse ain’t no joke!”

It was momentous, his slurring speech had caused a speck of spit to fly skilfully into the air and land onto his cheek, producing a grimace from Gideon. He’d moved his hand to wipe his cheek, smile still poised onto his lips.

  “Listen, mate. I didn’t say anything. It’s just a match-“

   “Just a match?! All lies.” At the rate he was flouncing about, Gideon was surprised that he hadn’t fallen on his arse and liked a turtle on its shell had not been able to get up again. In truthfulness, there were more questionable things in life- like, one would say, the Harpies’ victory over the Irish. Not that he’d say it out loud.

Well, not with his mouth. His face however? It seemed to say a million words, or so that was what Molly often said… and he understood that it his family, for what it was, whatever Molly Prewett said goes.

He was about to let it go- ‘be the bigger man’ as he was often taught, but the things the next venomous words that had left the larger wizard’s lips left nothing but boiling blood inside of Gideon.

   “I know you- ain’t ya sister… I bet she supports the Harpies. Knows how ta ride a broom too, the fiery little thing.”

His face had dropped at a moment’s notice as the man’s hand had moved to grab his wand- Gideon had scoffed at the gesture.

   “What, scared ta use your wand?”

His tone was low, eyes clouded in an anger that seemed unimaginable, at least for him.

And I'll use you as a warning sign That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind

Mindless chatter. That’s all one ever really got out of a traitor. The low-life snitches were the worst with their flimsy loyalties and weak stomachs. They were the kind that Amycus had to be careful with, their lack of spine made for shorter sessions. Down here, in his basement? Where he’d just finished working over the mut bound to a chair before him, he was disgusted. 

The pathetic fool had passed out too many times to count. It was only magic that brought him back around, each and every time. “Did I give you permission to tap out?” His hiss was low, tone fuelled by a cool anger. What happened to the good old days? when traitors were men who could take it?  

Though, that was exactly why Amycus preffered Legilimency for his torture. Getting inside someone’s head meant you had complete and utter control, of everything. He was the only thing that would decide when a person could pass out, how long they could take it, how far he’d stretch them out...

And I'll use you as a focal point So I don't lose sight of what I want

But he was an old fashioned guy and sometimes? Nothing worked out your inner darkness like a knife to a fresh canvas. He loved watching the crimson river ebb and flow much like his victim’s life force as his little soirée continued. “I swear, I dun’ kno’ nothin’” came the gurgling plead. 

“Now, now, Richards. We all know that’s not entirely true.” 

His lip curled into a nasty grin as the tip of his knife met an unmarred section of flesh. The crook of Richard’s elbow had the most delicate skin, the blade cut through like melted butter and the older Carrow had to suppress his shiver of delight. 

Electricity ran through his veins as screams filled the basement. It gave him the kind of erotic thrill that almost nothing else could. God, he lived for this. Moments just like this were exactly why he became a Death Eater. It provided opportunity, an outlet for his desires.  ❝ From the day we met, I knew I’d hurt you eventually ❞

And I've moved further than I thought I could But I missed you more than I thought I would

Sure, most were here to overthrow the Dark Lord himself, or align even further with him for the power that gave you but Amycus? He was content in his position, content to live out the rest of his days doing exactly this... and so the session continued, for hours on end until finally, Richard’s eyes glazed over, the screaming ceased and the final breath left his traitorous lips.

An erotic moan escaped him as he wiped the blade with a velvet cloth, cleaning his tools of the blood that was now pooling beneath the feet of his victim. One of his elves popped into his peripheral and he rounded on the thing, the smile still smack centre on his face. “Yes, dear? Is everything ok?”

They had become well accustomed to whom they worked for and flinched not at the now deceased body. “Mistress Zabini is here for you, she is awaiting your presence.” 

❝ I guess this is a lesson in not trusting people, right? ❞

At eight years old, Aberforth had lost his trust in the goodness of people. Not muggles, though the group of boys who had thrown the Dumbledore family’s quiet life into a tailspin had been magic-less. All it took was taunts and jeering and an attack born of fear, and something vital had become tangled up in Ariana. She was forever altered, then, and their father was gone- Aberforth would never see him again, not that he’d ever have imagined that to be true that day- within a week. Within the following years Albus left to go to school, so happy to shrug off the burden of his younger siblings, one crazy, the other a loose canon. Their mother was gone, too, in what seemed like only a blink of an eye later. Aberforth had learned from an early age that trusting in stability was the act of a naive fool. 

It had been at sixteen, full to the brim with an anger that only quieted for Ariana, that Aberforth had lost his trust in his brother. His relationship with Albus had been a fraught thing for so long by then it had already felt eternal. They’d been shifting apart with the inevitable slide of tectonic plates ever since Albus had first set foot in Hogwarts, and the process had only exacerbated since then. At sixteen, Aberforth had thought he had nothing in common with his older brother but the last name they shared. His trust in Albus was a relic of a time when he would peer over his brother’s shoulder as he read, asking quiet questions about what was going on in the story until Albus would relent and read aloud. That trust, forged long ago with enough resilience to withstand years of disagreements and two coffins between them, shattered in the face of the third.

Aberforth had a past with the concept of trust. It wasn’t a good one. 

And so when he left the Hog’s Head under the control of one of his regulars for an afternoon, it wasn’t an act of trust, per se. Aberforth fully expected the dim-witted arse to fuck up royally. He just couldn’t find a better option readily available, and cleaning up after the idiot he left in charge for a couple of slow hours in the middle of the day would probably be less time consuming in the long run than finding someone more qualified would be. He hadn’t been optimistic about the outcome of his brief time away, but he hadn’t really anticipated returning to find a handful of tables reduced to splinters and a floor covered in a sticky layer of alcohol and peppered with broken glass. And yet, in retrospect he couldn’t exactly claim to be surprised, either. 

Aberforth walked into the pub, kicking the door open with the toe of his boot as both his hands were occupied- one holding a bag of goat feed on his shoulder, because Callie had a finicky stomach, the other gripping a bag full of the varied items he’d gotten tired of doing without when he ran out of them a month before- and immediately stopped. Standing, two steps beyond the door, Aberforth cast his gaze over the mess with a slow, lingering intensity that broke off all the hushed conversations of the few patrons immediately. The tension was palpable, and the arse Aberforth had left in charge opened his mouth as if to start spouting excuses, but, thinking better of it, snapped it shut again. Aberforth let out a sigh of monumental proportions. 

The wizard left in charge scampered out from behind the bar, the movement abrupt and hurried, and pulled to a stop in front of Aberforth, “I can explain! It was Julian and Richard, y’know, they’re always playing cards, and things got- well, they got out of hand, and I didn’t really want to step in to tear them apart because it’s like dogs, y’see, you can get bit-” 

Aberforth cut him off mid sentence by slinging the bag of goat feed off his shoulder and tossing it directly into the wizards chest. The man’s eyes widened the moment before it collided, and he staggered backwards, just barely keeping his feet and catching the bag as the air left his lungs with a whoosh. Prattling effectively silenced, Aberforth’s attention slid to the rest of the patrons, overwhelmingly regulars, universally sheepish. Except for one, who pivoted on her stool at the bar and smiled, “I guess this is a lesson in not trusting people, right?”