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(( @thorfiinn ))

Better days are coming. Benjy repeated that over and over, trying to convinced himself that it was true. Because if he managed to convince himself, then he would be able to start trying to convince others. Better days are coming. The last couple of days, or weeks, more like moths, had been filled with tragedies. At least after the horrifying days everyone had had, things slowed down a little. Benjy felt horrible for even thinking about things slowing down, it was unfair that he complained when people had lost their lives. He was sure people would rather take a hectic stressful day than no day at all. His mind was in a constant struggle with his heart, and he was beginning to understand why he had been place in Ravenclaw, it turned out that everyone was right, the Sorting Hat is never wrong. Between work and the order, Benjy managed to keep updated on his friends’ whereabouts. He tried to see them outside of the war mode environment, but he still failed. The luxury of grabbing a bite or going out for drinks, even something as simple as a coffee run, was getting further and further away from him. Still he tried.

There were other people he cared about that Benjy hadn’t had a chance to see yet, to check up on them, some he had not heard about in a long time. One of those people was Thorfinn Rowle. To anyone looking in the situation could not be more impossible. Their friendship was something that took people by surprise. They were as different as the sun and the moon, and yet Benjy remembered trailing after Thorfinn during pureblood events, and later at Hogwarts. The older boy always looking out for Benjy, his favorite part was how Thor always seemed to have chocolate on him, and Benjy loved chocolate. Time passed and Benjy started to try to return the favor. Sure he could never look out for Thorfinn the way he did for him, but there were aspects that Thor often overlooked. Eating properly for example. It had become a tradition, at least on Benjy’s part, to stop by Rowle manor whenever he could, throw open Thorfinn room’s plush velvet curtains, let the sunshine in, and kinda sorta force him to eat a good meal, some baked goods if Benjy had managed to not eat those along the way.

Even as the rumors started, as Alastor place Thorfinn’s name on a list, Benjy never turned his back on him. There has never been any doubt about him, he knows in his heart that if the world were to stop spinning the one thing that would remain standing would be Thorfinn determination to look out for him. Benjy might never bring it up, but he knows that Thor has been protecting him, had been doing it for years, even before Benjy could truly understand it. Now, now he’s not about to betray his friend, no matter how many believe he’s being blind or naïve. Benjy believes in Thorfinn and will always be on his side. That’s why he was now on his way to Rowle manor, an order of Chinese takeout in one hand, and homemade pie on the other. The pie is of course courtesy of Charity, who after walking into the kitchen being almost burn down, took pity on Benjy and helped him bake. She made him promise to be careful, and with that Benjy apparated into the long road leading up to the imposing building. Despite coming to Finn’s house several times, Benjy would never get used to the way the house seemed to apparated out of nowhere when the road began to curve. Reaching the main gate Benjy pressed his hand into the magical lock, he had been granted access to the property a long time ago.

The place looked like it always did, too big for one person to be living there alone. No matter how hard Benjy had tried to convince Thor to move out, the older boy had not wanted to leave his home behind. Benjy didn’t totally believe that, but he didn’t want to push it further. Taking the long staircase two steps at a time, Benjy reached the top, he walked the hallway that lead to Thor’s room, he knew that’s where the older boy would be. ❝Thor…❞ Benjy called into the hallway, ❝Thorfinn, it’s me Ben❞ he said smiling, even if the other could not see him. ❝You know what’s happening next don’t you? We have a wonderful day, very sunny❞ Benjy reached Thorfinn’s door and turned the handle slowly, if Thor didn’t want him coming in he would say something. After waiting a reasonable amount of time Benjy walked in, he placed the food on a nearby table and walked towards the curtains, throwing them open to let the sun in. ❝Missed me?❞ he asked with a grin.

Acidic reveries concocted paralysis, a plague of an alternate calibre unleashed upon a tarrying mind. They shattered crystalized barriers with pointed precision, and became the cause of his own volition. Rowle Manor was a contagion, its subterfuge an illness. He was the roaming rodent scurrying from its poison, inhaling toxins which, in turn, would drown him once he sought the sea. It’s unhealthy, he'd heard. Move out, he'd heard. There’s nothing left, he’d heard. But that was where he snatched their tongue-- for there’d never been something. His wealth rivaled a plethora of fellow bloodlines, and he’d spent languid months scrutinizing towering flats available for affluent purchase. In the end, an unmade bed and its dark silken sheets enveloped a weary frame. In the end, he loathed, fists balled, phantom walls fractured from knuckled impact. And in the end, he remained the dragon shielding its dreaded castle.

Time and its interval was amiss amidst his shadowed chambers. The abode’s entirety was devoid of light, and his bedroom allowed no difference. What color may have once existed had long ago been dipped in tar; the only shock of glimmering tone residing in ashen hair and mismatched eyes. Oil-tinted curtains were drawn taut as he preferred, their purpose immaculate to his solemn tastes. His figure was caressed upon its open coffin, features masked by a feathered pillow. Seasons were expected to be disregarded, fleeting moments, where Thorfinn failed to greet their offerings beyond the room’s threshold. Of course, he’d known only one to force his hand. A relationship which had yet to erupt into ruinous cataclysm, but one he knew would hold a downfall of irrefutable harm. Death was a lurker, a passive smirk whom wished to collect. As the last of his lineage, he held no particular qualms if offered the scythe.

Three stories of hollow halls knew how to echo a voice. He recalled cursing the young Auror on numerous occasions-- even threatening his presence upon each arrival. War games disallowed the advancement of saccharine parties, and he considered the male a honey-tongued contestant. A groan was distorted by the muffling of his pillow. Why, exactly, had he not re-charmed the house’s sanctioned company? His isolated silence was futile, he knew. His mouth remained bolted, potent refusal the intruder’s provided answer. Polite footsteps infiltrated his slumbering motive, and Benjy’s grin was deafening despite Thorfinn’s lack of sight. He pressed himself further against the embracing mattress-- until a specific rhetorical query violently berated him. “Benj, I swear, do not open--” an undesired heat flooded in. It crept along ebony-wooded flooring, revealed glossy dark wood. It leapt across the bed’s edge, and then rushed toward him. An arm flew upward, forearm his knightly shield. His jaw worked in irritation, brows furrowing whilst he peered over warming flesh. “Not at all.” Both palms began their aggressive kneading of jaded eyes. “Must you do this?”

The room of requirement had become a frequent haunt of Xeno’s. After having been shooed out of Ravenclaw tower one too many times for disrupting the quiet with his guitar, he’d needed to find a new place to make noise. Music and writing were his two most essential outlets, and he couldn’t forfeit either of them just for some peace and quiet. That’s why when he had stumbled upon the room of requirement last year, he head pleaded with it to provide him a musically equipped get  away. The room, as it always did, went above and beyond his expectations, even providing him with a beautiful baby grand along with comfy chairs for playing guitar, shelves of music books, and various other related amenities. 

On this particular day, he found himself on the bench with his fingers hovering over the ivories. He hesitated a moment, took a breath and set his fingers dancing over the keys. The tune he played was a favorite of his, a driving, haunting melody. Guitar was his primary instrument, so the piano tune was a sufficient challenge for him. His blonde mop bobbed slowly within rhythm, losing himself in the music. He lent his voice to the song, softly. ‘In my field of paper flowers… And candy clouds of lullaby… I lie inside myself for hours… And watch my purple sky fly over me…’   He played well for a moment, the song enchanting the air. However, the spell was broken as a sharp, dissonant note was struck by a misplaced finger. “Dammit.” The fourth year swore under his breath, running a frustrated hand through his messy locks. It was only then that he addressed the younger boy who had slipped into the room. “It’s always the E flat that gets me.” He said, swinging a leg over the piano bench to face the other student. “Did you ask for a music room as well? Oh just a place to be alone? if the latter, i apologize for the disappointment.”

{ @thorfiinn }

His entire anatomy ached. His bones, crushed, drifted in faint whispers of ivory dust. Sinewy tendons tangled, arteries forged themselves into intricate knots. Was he too young to know the merciless, torturous curse, or not young enough? His father-- the crucifying leviathan-- did little to dissuade the idealization of ceasefire. He was a first year when the colossus had been unleashed upon him; its inferno intensifying per haunting round of insidious onslaught. What motive had he ignited within his kin, to deserve such excruciating abandon? He could still hear the snarl spewed between immaculate canines: This will give you power, Thorfinn, this will give you strength. Nothing will be able to touch you. Yet he felt marred, his soul charred by figurative coals. He wished, not for the first time, that a retreat from Hogwarts did not land him within the executioner’s fortress dubbed Rowle Manor.

Thorfinn did not expect an honorary understanding from his peers. His silence was his rusted armor, archaic despite its adolescent bearer. The Great Hall was currently devoid of his presence, rows of Slytherins unaware of the absence. Seclusion and isolation had stupendous upsides-- hardly any specimen queried of his whereabouts. More than not, the loss of his stoic demeanor lacked notable quality. The grandiose library knew his every fibre, and if he was not found among its towering tome casings, the ominous lake caressed his existence. Where others found significant unrest at its shore, Thorfinn harbored foreign comfort.

The Room of Requirement had been an accidental unearthing. Or, perhaps, he simply hadn’t been seeking its excellence directly. It had appeared to him as it did now, a mirage crackling through looming stone. The gateway, an unsuspecting offering. What he expected-- pined for-- was its solemn deliverance. Yet, its interior produced traitorous intent. A harmonious tune lulled him forward, his quizzical stance drawn toward the intrusion-- or was he the intruder? The musician’s serenade was distorted by his own lowly curse. He’d always inquired the halls for a place to be alone. Why had they chosen now to forsake him? “Alone.” he echoed, partaking in his own offense. The Ravenclaw’s silhouette lacked the threat he‘d programmed himself to believe in every individual he crossed. His heart, already an inky black mass, refused to accept another’s graces. “I'm not sure why it showed me here.”

rowle woods april 5th, 1979 | 9:08am @thorfiinn

The woods smelled like fresh rain and pine as two men and their two horses walked a worn, beaten path behind an incredibly empty mansion. No words were being exchanged between the two, but that was normal for them. Words didn’t need to be spoken because Thorfinn understood Igor better than anyone he knew and Igor liked to think it was the same for his friend. He was someone Igor could open up his chest to and not receive an ounce of judgment in return. It has been like that not long after they met, even if it was hard for Igor to wrap his head around.

The black beauty beneath him shook her head, the plaits in her mane whipped around, causing Igor to smile and readjust the hairs he just braided before they took off. Igor wasn’t much of a morning person unless he had to be, but he always looked forward to riding with Thorfinn. It was calming and helped him sleep better at night, although that tended to last only for a day or so. Igor glanced around the woods as he listened to the wildlife slowly start to wake up.

“Have you ever buried a body back here?” he asked breaking the silence, an eyebrow raised as he looked over at Thorfinn before looking back at the path ahead of them. Even though Thorfinn owned these woods, he was still imagining all the ways they could do it. “I always liked dumpin’ bodies in the sea. No one is ever goin’ to find them there. Fish food before they even reach the bottom.”

Back home Igor did what he could to provide for his family. Being a wand for hire wasn’t much different compared to what he was doing now. The only real difference was now he was providing just for himself. It was surprisingly easy to have nothing. All Igor really needed was a roof over his head and time with the creature he was riding.

A sharp needle sewed jagged patterns throughout his head, forcing him to recall each now regretted glass of liquid amber that the previous night had nursed. He’d lacked the clarity in order to conjure a pure, unmarred recollection. The Rowle library had embraced his intoxicated corpse, and he’d roused to a tome pressed against his features, columns of blurred text illegible at such suffocating proximity. His body swayed in unison with the destrier’s fluid gait, yet he felt his figure warring with the movement. A trot would drive the needle further, a canter would jar him, a gallop may withdraw the acidic contents of his stomach. Yet his surety was absolute in one aspect: it would not unseat him.

He longed for frigid winter, for frozen green shards to crunch beneath his stallion’s hooves. For the silence of the air, for the stark vastness of snow. His mood amidst winter was, if you knew him, noticeably lighter. He longed for the elkhounds which darted across iced ponds and their lolling tongues, the massive, endearing beasts which a Reaper stole away by age. The last of his homeland rested within the proud skeletal structures of his five equines. And then, of course, there was Igor Karkaroff, who exhibited a plethora of divine similarities which made up for the plight.

Thorfinn harbored a particular loathing toward arid heat; the dawn’s less vehement climate managing to lull him from his morning abhorrence. He didn’t expect– or would allow– another to disrupt his slumber (restless and despondent it constantly was, regardless), aside from the man poised atop the dark horse to his left. His head was tilt back, eyes shut to the brink of day. The hint of a smile etched itself a place at the corners of his mouth, however fleeting. It took a rare specimen to allow him comfortable with attentive disregard.

Then, his comrade’s voice distort a peaceful illusion. An eye peered open, then his cranium rightened. The query dislodged a dark chuckle from his throat. “Good morning, Igor.” he mused, his index and middle digits stroking white withers. He rolled his shoulders, shook himself from a languid form. “Bones can be found.” he relayed, two particular, parental obsidian headstones flashing before him. “Ashes, however..” The Rowle soil knew well the dead’s testimonials. The estate had once known Asger and Astrid’s, too, before he’d removed their insufferable beings from the property. The sea. I miss it. “There’s a small lake here, but nothing more.”