#venomstarter

Just keep walking, hand in the report, smile at Millie, turn around and keep heading tow- was he looking? No... no, and now he’s looking nod and keep the head down, move on-

The litany of instructions to himself kept Peter moving through his day at the Ministry, the department of education wasn’t usually a busy place at this time of the year but Dumbledore’s... death had shaken them all to their core. He had to keep resisting the urge to touch his thigh and three people already told him he looked tired; being up for thirty nine hours would do that. Shaking his head slightly he realised his final tasks were done and he could finally go back to his apartment... Or maybe Godric’s? Or the Order? Or even- no! Not there, never there they’d make him do things and the more he did the more he knew he lost of Merlin-

“Bye Archie.” he said softly to the receptionist of the department, the quiet timbre of his voice an utter contrast to the chaos of his mind. Peter made it outside the ministry to the busy streets of London and his indecisiveness gave him a few moments pause, unable to think what, or where, he should go. 

A tap in his shoulder caused him to jump a foot in the air with a yell and he nearly snapped his neck with how quick he turned, shoulders drooping, head down, hunched, every aspect submissive, as it waiting for a blow to come...

“Y-yes?” his voice little more than a whisper.

“Thank you and have a good day, Madam Lestrange,” the goblin said politely as he escorted her to the door. “We hope you’ve had a pleasant visit, and we do look forward to seeing you again.” Bellatrix ignored the little creature, her mind deep in thought. Hufflepuff’s Cup was still safely locked away in her vault, thank Merlin, but the magic imbued in it was weak. She remembered how it had felt when the Dark Lord had first asked her to hide it away – bursting with a dark, dangerous sort of power, full of a strength that had made her skin crawl despite herself. Today, it had been a fraction of its former self, but, much to her relief, still sputtering all the same. She wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it had to be a sign. A good sign, at that.

She slammed the door to Gringotts in the goblin’s face, and, so preoccupied with her thoughts, she barely registered that there was a person in front of her until she bodily walked into them, causing them both to stumble. “Now, I have to assume that you’ve suffered some sort of injury to the head,” Bellatrix snapped without seeing the person’s face. Righting herself and smoothing down her robes, she slid a hand into her pocket to clench around her wand. “Otherwise, why else would you be so piteously stupid to get in my way?”

Gordon nursed a double whiskey as he flipped listlessly through the Prophet. There wasn’t much of interest in the paper, which was to be expected. He rarely even bothered with the news because he didn’t need to rely on something so primitive and so inaccurate as a daily newspaper, but it had been in front of him, and he welcomed any distraction from the dull throbbing of his head. The only thing of interest was the article about Crouch, but even that, he struggled to take seriously because Rita Skeeter would do anything for a byline, including over exaggerations and straight up mutations of fact. He finished off his drink and signaled the bartender for another – perhaps, he should have called upon Severus for a fresh batch of potions, but he wasn’t ready to confess to the alarming rate at which he’d torn through them, leaving him vulnerable and empty handed, with more muggle methods to numb the aftershocks of his vision. Crass, yes, but that didn’t diminish their effectiveness.

He felt eyes on him, and he glanced over at the person on the stool next to him. “Oh – were you waiting for this?” he asked, holding up the Prophet. He folded it up without much care and handed it over, glad to be rid of the thing. “You’re not missing much. Mostly the usual – disappearances, death, and all things depressing,” Gordon said candidly, pulling his freshly-topped-off drink towards himself and taking a hefty sip. “Someone already did the crossword too, which is a shame.” Gordon hated most word games and puzzles, actually – they always made him feel slow and grossly undereducated. But it seemed like the thing to say. “Witch Weekly, now that’s a publication,” he muttered, mostly to himself, grimacing as a particularly sharp spasm of pain went from his forehead to the base of his skull.

They kept on coming, not stopping despite him wishing for a moment to catch his breath. There were duels to prepare for and meetings to set up, in this case he’d travelled from the Ministry to Gringotts to deal with some dispute over a deceased wizards estate. More often then not Wizards and Witches would complete the paperwork with as little involvement from the goblins as possible and he knew that would hardly see them growing any more cordial in their work.   

He’d taken it upon himself to head over, being seen quickly (he’d developed some rapport with the staff there in his brief time working at the ministry) and together they’d gone through some procedures that would cut the time in half. He’d need to bring this process forward to Mr. Mockridge when he saw him next, making it protocol could do their relationship with the Goblins favours and shorten a difficult process. 

The goblin, named Banrast, escorted him to the front doors of the bank and both exchanged goodbyes in Gobbledegook, the harsh, violent sounding language drawing a few looks. Dirk smiled at one such onlooker and explained, “I know it may sound a little harsh, but we were only saying goodbye.” a light laugh following his words. 

Folding up the newest copy of the Prophet, Severus leaned his head back against the wall behind his mattress, the ceiling of his shabby one-room flat seeming to close in on him the longer he considered the claustrophobic revelation on the front page of the paper. 

He’d been relieved, that the Dark Lord was gone. He would deny that, obviously, but it was nice just to have... a break. No one knocking on his door for potions, no one calling him and commanding him to fight with no explanation. An unfamiliar mental sense of peace, knowing he would finally get a break from Occlumency. Of course, there’d still been the notion that he had nothing to do now, with his life, in general. But he’d compartmentalized that and was planning on giving himself at least a week to relax before having to deal with it. A week hadn’t seemed like too much to ask. 

But apparently it was. Severus glanced back down at the front page, willing the words to shift, the headline to change. When they didn’t, he slowly rolled off the mattress on the floor and stood with a sigh. His dark mark had been completely inert. If the Dark Lord was still around in any capacity, wouldn’t he have called them? Why hadn’t he heard anything? Maybe another Death Eater had sent in the news, to try to terrify the Muggleborns again. Not unlikely. But either way, Severus supposed he couldn’t learn what was going on if he stayed holed up here. 

Picking up his wand, he sighed once more before apparating. The East London landscape outside his window vanished as cobblestone streets and the typical shopfronts of Diagon Alley came into view. Some of the shops were still boarded up, casualties of war, but there was enough still open these days that he was bound to run into someone who knew something. At the very least, he could figure out what others thought of the whole situation - which was, arguably, not ideal for anyone, no matter their side. 

Leaning up against a wall, he waited until a figure walked by. “Wild news in the Prophet this morning,” he said, his words as absent of opinion as possible. 

Taking a seat at a table toward the rear end of the Three Broomsticks the newly acting Headmistress of Hogwarts had been unable to spend a moment longer in her new office with a portrait of the man she’d so respected snoozing peacefully in her eyesight. She nodded to Rosmerta and that was enough, moments after she was seated a generous portion of firewhiskey was played before and the barmaid rested a hand momentarily on her shoulder before heading off to serve other patrons.

Her emerald green robes stood out in her dark corner but she refused to wear black a moment longer; she’d mourn Albus longer than she suspected many would think but the world would continue to turn and she now had an entire castle’s worth of students under her care. With a sigh she lifted the glass and downed the entire contents in a single gulp without so much as a grimace. 

Placing the glass firmly back on the table she looked up and saw a fellow approaching; with a raised eyebrow she deadpanned, “If you’d like to sit then just sit, standing in front of me won’t get you served any quicker and I’m not about to crick my neck looking up at you.” 

All around her in the small cafe there was a buzz, an electric crackle of energy that set her teeth on edge. The paper lay abandoned under her elbow as she tried to enjoy her cup of coffee, fingertips stained with her haste to devour it only a half hour before. As an auror her job had not changed, dark wizards still and would exist and with their leader gone it would be time to round them all up and swallow the key, let them rot in azkaban. But the Order.....there seemed to be little victory to the eradication of Voldemort, for Marlene at least because in the process they’d lost Dumbledore. The longer she though about it however the more she admitted to herself that she’d trade Dumbledore’s life if the result was the death, the true and permanent death, of Voldemort. It may not be a fair trade but one she’d make...without hesitation.

And still she was furious, that Dumbledore had died in the endeavor. He was supposed to be here, he was supposed to survive and lead them out of the darkness. But he was gone and she was left adrift without his guiding hands. It had been Dumbledore what recruited her, would the rest of the Order even want her to remain within its ranks? She was not exactly a desirable partner in any sense of the term. If they kicked her out she really didn’t know what would happen to all of her rage and necessity.

The chair to her right scraped against the tile, pulling her from the depths of her own fears. There was a small cluster of people who could possibly believe she’d be happy to see them and she lifted her eyes, refocusing the lenses on her new companion. “Coffee or tea?” 

date: October 5th, 1979

availability: open!

The door sticks a bit as he tries to shove it open - a telltale sign that he’s in the right place. The Hog’s Head has never been known for its welcome atmosphere, but they have drinks and a place to sit ( which, at the moment, is all Quirinus is looking for ). It also offers a sense of quiet that the Three Broomsticks can’t provide - another thing Quirinus is desperately in search of tonight. He can’t stand another night of sitting alone in the castle, left to his own thoughts and devices - it’s beginning to drive him mad.

The pub is mostly empty - no one looks at him as he approaches the bar ( Thank Merlin, he thinks with relief ). He orders some sort of ale and then throws himself onto a rickety stool, pointedly ignoring the noise it makes as he sits. 

He’s not sure if the ale is actually good or if he’s just in some sort of mood, but he begins to down it at a rapid pace. Within minutes, he’s ordered a second and set straight to work on the bottle. Quirinus has never been much of a drinker - only on occasion - but if there were any occasion that called for a binge like this, it was this one.

( He’ll regret this in the morning when he’s go to return to teaching, but he has no such thoughts in the moment ). 

Quirinus is so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hardly notices the door creaking open yet again. The first sign of the newcomer he notices is the approaching footsteps; before he can do anything about it, there’s someone sitting on the stool next to him. He’s sure he doesn’t have much of a right to be angry at their arrival, but he is anyway. His grip on the bottle tightens and he speaks without even turning to face them. 

“That seat is t-taken, actually.”