#taliesinlestrange

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the cocktail of potions that lazarus had given her last night had done wonders for her. muscles that throbbed after the full moon had settled into a dull ache. the dark circles that had been resident under her eyes had disappeared thanks in part to the draught she’d taken and in part to sleeping for more than half a day. between the sleep and the urgency of what was happening in the world outside, she had more energy than she thought she would. when she’d risen, disoriented and starving, she’d first sought out one of the elves asking if she might have a plate of anything brought to her. while she was waiting, she made quick work of cleaning up. fresh clothes, a sink scrub down, her hair brushed and twisted into milkmaid braids atop her head. it was better to keep it out of her face anyhow. 

with food in her stomach and feeling better than she had in days, she gets the same elf to lead her down to the potions lab. it takes a few minutes to get acquainted with the space, finding all the herbs that she could want for. rolling up her sleeves, she begins to gather what she’d need for a potion she hadn’t seen last night — or at least, one that she didn’t remember seeing. there is something meticulous about the way she moves, the smell of herbs wafting around her and lingering on her fingers. it’s only when she hears the door open behind her does she break concentration slightly to speak,   “ i’ve been brewin’ some blood-replishin’ potions because i didn’ see — ”   the sentence stops midway from her mouth when she sees just who is standing in the room with her. not lazarus coming to check on her as she’d originally thought, but another member of the same family. her heart jumps into her throat and her lips quirk upwards in a soft smile that seems to be just reserved for him these days,   “ hey. ”

PRIVACY: norris house, the library ( unwarded, public space )

TAGGING: @taliesinlestrange​

prosperina  had  more  than  her  fair  share  of  negative  memories  associated  with  libraries,  but  despite  that  —  or  perhaps  even  because  of  it  —  she  always  felt  drawn  to  them.  there  was  something  about  the  vastness  of  the  knowledge  they  contained,  the  ability  to  change  the  course  of  your  life  in  a  moment  by  picking  up  the  right  book  that  drew  her  to  them.  she  shouldn’t  have  been  surprised  when  she  found  herself  entering  the  library  of   the  norris  house  without  even  intending  to  go  in.  it  only  took  a  simple  wave  of  her  wand  to  light  the  candles  before  she  was  starting  down  the  wall,  fingers  grazing  the  shelves  as  she  skimmed  the  titles.  

with  the  number  of  libraries  she’d  been  in,  few  had  been  this  well  organized,  this  tidy.  she  absentmindedly  pulled  a  book  from  the  shelf  and  made  her  way  towards  the  center  of  the  room,  tucking  her  dress under  her  as  she  sat  at  the  desk  that  occupied  this  part  of  the  room.  she  was  just  reaching  toward  one  of  the  drawers  when  she  heard  motion  towards  the  front  of  the  room  and  looked  up  to  see  taliesin  lestrange  at  the  door.  she  let  out  a  breath,  offering  a  timid  smile.  “well,  i  feel  rather  caught.  are  you  seeking  refuge  as  well?”

this had to be the worst year of her life. it was probably a true sentiment for most of the wixen community, but it felt particularly fucked to her. the murders over the summer, being arrested for something out of her control, her secret being ripped from her, being physically taken from her trial, the list went on. why not add ghouls, ghosts, and various otherwise undead creatures too? it seemed par for the course. then came the news that the rip in the veil was their fault, those who’d completed the seance at the norris estate. how, in only a few months, had her life almost completely fallen apart? how, in only a few months, had this year stretched into several? the ministry had sent word to find safe shelter, that any place unwarded from the horrors that overtook the streets were, essentially, not their problem. her apartment was certainly not the place with the strongest wards.

as though the list wasn’t long enough, this year not utter shit, the full moon rose the following night. artemis was already feeling the affects; the beginnings of harsh aches in her muscles, especially in her arms and legs, the pulsing ache in her gums, the sensitivity to light. though she knew it to be worse without her wolfsbane, this had to be one of the worst months she’d had in a long while. between the warning of the ministry, her practically unprotected apartment, and the utter exhaustion in her features; she manages to drag herself ( with a day’s with of clothes tucked into a backpack ) to the closest place that is safe. gringotts wizarding bank. already pale countenance seems almost sickly as she walks into the bank. she finds herself sliding down a wall in a far back corner after dropping her bag; her knees remain raised, feet pressed firmly to the floor, her head falls back against the wall as her eyes close.   just breathe, child of the moon. you will prevail.

two weeks. artemis hadn’t seen him in two weeks. they must have passed each other in the ministry, the interview leaving her shaken. they’d asked questions about that night, about the norris house, but they’d tried to talk her in a circle. the aurors, with their sneering grins and sharpened teeth, wanted nothing more than to be free of their task — or so she assumed. her case file was surely on someone’s desk and had been gathering dust prior to her presence at that party. she’s thankful, at least, to have had the foresight to get rid of the letter that had spread ink stains on her fingertips.     cygnus black’s ink on her fingertips.     if she thought about it too long, the seance, the party, nausea started to settle in.

the cool night air of diagon alley had been a blessing before she’d stepped into the humid bar. seeing taliesin lestrange with his head bent over some beverage or another was the last thing she expected to see tonight. she’d thought she might have imagined their fingers brushing, still did. yet, she was almost positive she couldn’t imagine his whispered directions and the muted kindness of his tone. she hovers inside for a few moments, letting the noise and the chatter consume her. it’s only as she’s listening that she hears the bartender, cheerfully and probably trying to make some coin, wish him a happy birthday. brow creases slightly — alone on his birthday? that seemed odd for someone who carried himself so wholly. surely, he would have someone to celebrate with? it takes another few beats before she settles into an empty seat at the bar, one seat between them.   “ hey, ”   happy birthday.   it’s unspoken, left alone.   “ mind if i join ye? ” 

the room that, only hours ago, seemed beautiful, pressed inwards on her. in the time she’d been here, she hadn’t heard one mention of cecil norris’ presense — it set her nerves aflame. the letter in the pocket of her dress only further fanned her nerves and was proof enough that something was amiss. never had she met cecil norris, but if the correspondence between cygnus black and he was to be an example of his business contacts she’d rather he stay hidden from the function. there was little hope that he would not make his presence known at dinner; it seemed like something those with money would do — make their guests wait for their appearance with bated breath. unfortunately for him, she had no qualms whether he decided to show his face or not. though, with the letter hidden away, the notion of him not being present did twist her stomach uncomfortably. if not here, where was he? did he now greet cygnus black in the world beyond? the thought is pushed from her mind entirely as she steps into the buzzing dining room. 

she’d not found her place card earlier when she’d spoken with lyall, too focused on the magnificence of the room and the estate itself. now she wishes she’d, at least, attempted to look. blue dress whispers over the stone floor as she moves about the room, attempting to catch   artemis fawley   written in the elegant script that every card seemed to have. it takes her more than a few moments until she finds it — yet, when she sees the name placed beside her, the appetite that she’d managed to hold onto nearly disappears.   taleisin lestrange   was written clearly in that same matching script.   “ lovely, ”   is blown out on a breath. she has half a mind to pluck her card from the table and remove it, to swap it for anyone else, but upon glancing around the room and seeing the rather disgruntled look on euphemia’s features, she realizes that the other must have already tried and failed. they were placed as they were for a reason.

possessions —

XIX. THE SUN — Describe a happy moment in your muse’s life.

FLEAMONT POTTER’S interest in potions had started out as more of a necessity rather than anything he would call an affinity or a hobby –– his hair, from birth, had always been thick and untamable, unruly and resistant to all manner of attempts to smooth it down or cut it or tie it back or shave it off. It seemed to have a mind of its own –– but what his disagreeable head of hair didn’t seem to know at the time was that Fleamont Potter never backed down from a challenge. SO ––– he spent hours in the library, reading through his own potions textbooks, his upperclassmens’ textbooks, and anything in the restricted section he could get his hands on without a reprimanding look from the librarian or a sharp nip from the irritable hardcovers. Once he’d gathered enough information, crammed enough notes scrawled on parchment and stuffed between the pages of his trusty potions textbook... and then been temporarily banned from the library once the librarian had seen the way he’d disrespected a book in her realm ––– he began to brew.  His FIRST batch of what he privately called his ‘myracle elyxr’ turned his hair a terrible shade of chartreuse. His SECOND batch, operating under the code-name ‘luscious locks’, once cooled, was more solid than the stone excalibur was still firmly lodged in. To this day, he uses it as a door-stopper. His THIRD batch, which he refused to name during the entire month it took him to brew it and swore every time he forgot to stir it three times clockwise, then one time counter-clockwise, then two times clockwise, then four times counter-clockwise ––– er... well. Ask him about it, and he’ll throw his hands in the air, harrumph, and stomp away, muttering something about ASIAN DRAGON HAIR under his breath. His FOURTH batch was far more promising than those that preceded it. He’d gotten the idea to crush the GOMAS BARBADENSIS with the flat side of his knife’s blade, rather than grind it up with a mortar and pestle. The resulting potion tamed his hair, but straightened it completely –– making him look, in his opinion, like an afghan hound. It was not a desirable look. His FIFTH batch was the one. He’d known it from the moment he’d woken up that day  ––– he’d woken up unseasonably early, eager to go back to sleep, only to roll over and see one of his muggleborn dormmates smoothing some kind of thick substance onto his hair. He called it PETROLEUM JELLY. All it had taken was a charming smile and a few galleons and Fleamont had been able to buy it off the bloke, which had then set him running down the halls toward the still-empty potions classroom, in his sleeping robe, in order to test out his latest idea. AND. IT. WORKED. There were a fair few moments in his life that he looked back upon fondly, memories he’d cherish, happy moments that brought a grin to his face just to think about ––– but the feeling of succeeding at something that no one had interfered with or poked or prodded him into doing beforehand was.. precious to him. The feeling of elation when he finally smoothed the potion over his dark locks and saw the markedly positive difference was rivaled only by the quiet gratification he’d feel a few months later, when he made his first hushed sale of SLEEKEAZY’S HAIR POTION & SCALP TREATMENT. Then, of course, after a year or so there were the quiet meetings he held away from his father’s watchful eye, the hands shaken over cups of proudly brewed spiced chai, and finally the arrival of an AMERICAN NEWSPAPER one morning that featured a small if not prominent advertisement for his potion, which had apparently found fans in AMERICAN WITCHES.