fletchermundungus

[fletchermundungus]

spellnbone​:

Edgar woke up naked and painfully sober. He remembered everything, and it was strange. He remembered the vivid back and forth Fletcher and him had shared, the jokes and the laughter, and how they’d taught each other marvellous stories from the world of theatre, which both had lived in for so long that they’d thought there was no one else left to still teach them anything new. But here they’d been. He remembered the posters, soon taken down and even sooner forgotten. And he remembered that when he handed Fletcher the book of Carlisle, and their hands had brushed, neither of them had really thought it an accident. And it was strange because Edgar could not remember the last time he’d slept with someone while sober.

It was all there, the sensations and touches, the sounds of heavy breaths and the chills caused by fingertips, and the warmth. Oh, this warmth. It was a chill that woke him up, many hours later. The memories rushed to come back to him, and with a chuckle, he had to indulge the scent and taste and images all over again, covering his face with his arm as he felt himself blushing. “Well done, Fletcher,” he hummed, shaking his head. How long had Edgar managed to resist? Exactly three hours and fifteen minutes? And he’d tried. He really had. His arm uncurled and fell onto the mattress next to him, finding no one. He turned his head and found the bed, the room, empty. The posters were still there, but Fletcher was gone. Or at least it looked like the posters were still all there, but Edgar wasn’t blind enough to believe that Fletcher hadn’t taken at least one thing from this room. After all, that was why he’d come here in the first place. To steal something.

Not thinking much of it, Edgar got up and got dressed. This was his childhood bedroom; none of the memories in here really mattered. It was only when he faced the mirror to tie his cravat that he saw it. Or really, saw the lack of it: his earring was missing. 

He felt his heart drop and hurried back to the bed, checking between the covers and pillows and underneath to see if it had fallen out last night, but of course, deep down, he already knew the answer. He felt sick. The only possession of his that mattered, the only possession that wasn’t really his. “Fuck.” His path led him directly to the room in which they kept the Minutes, searching through it to find the entry from when they’d initiated Fletcher. But there was nothing, only a note that Dumbledore had vouched for him. No address, no note on how to find him. “Of course not.” First rule of being a master at pretending to be other people was to be no one yourself. Edgar’s blood was boiling.

Unfortunately for Fletcher, Edgar knew the people he kept with, and had always had a thing for research. Before the bells chimed nine, Edgar was down in Wizarding London, and lucky for him, most thespians were just on their way home from a long night out. He caught them and asked, and indeed, most of them pointed to the apartment Edgar had been to in January, but which had rather obviously not been filled with stolen goods. So when one Witch, a rather young actress, said she knew however a bar which occasionally received letters from Fletcher, Edgar thanked her shortly. He reached the bar when it was already closed, but he knew it well and knew the owners lived in the apartment above. So he rang them awake until they opened and asked if they knew of any letters from a Mr Mundungus Fletcher. They said that yes and after he urged them rather sternly, they showed him one of the envelopes. As expected it had no return address but it was good enough. Edgar brought it to an owlery, showed it to the owl and explained to her his issue, then put it into yet another envelope and wrote on its front Fletcher’s name. “And don’t you dare fly too fast,” he told the owl, and let her go. 

His heart was pounding the entire time he was following her, missing beats whenever she momentarily disappeared behind the rooftops, and skipping whenever she reappeared. He was lucky it wasn’t a long flight, because by the time she suddenly sat down on the window sill of a rather inconspicuous building, he’d nearly been running to keep up with her. His breath was sharp in his throat, and sweat was running down his temples. But it was all worth it. All worth it to keep the key safe. He looked up at the building. So this was where the infamous Mundungus Fletcher lived… In the middle of London, in plain sight. The owl knocked on the window but no one opened her. But she also didn’t fly away, meaning that Fletcher was home. Either he’d seen Edgar through the window and was hiding, or he was somewhere else in the building. “Only one way to find out.” 

Grimly, he took out his wand and pointed it at the door. And for once, his magic was strong and willing. Bursting in, he walked without hesitation, following the chaotic but soft energies of Fletcher through the building, now certain that he was in the right place. They led him down, and further down still, having him realise long before he saw the first tracks that this was an old, abandoned tube station. What he realised too late, however, was that the cold, acid energies filling this place wasn’t just the fact that he was underground, but that there was another presence here. Something old. Something angry. Something dead. 

She shone bright in the dark, with fury keeping her tied to this world she floated above the ground and fixated him with her eyes. Through her body passed the smoke of Fletcher’s cigarette but she didn’t seem to notice. “What do you want?” she asked Edgar, who had always feared ghosts too much but today knew he couldn’t flinch or leave, no matter how scared he’d get. So he pointed at Fletcher, behind her, who was restlessly pacing but keeping his gaze averted. “He stole something from me.”

“That is what he does. Leave.”

“I can’t. I need it back.”

“If you had need it so badly, you would’ve made sure no one would take it away from you.” A pause. “What is it?”

Edgar took a breath. No fear. “It’s the key to a heart I’m warding.”

Behind her, Fletcher’s eyes found him.

The ghost seemed to disappear for a moment, but there she was again. "You can't have it."

His hands clenched, his back straightened. “Why not?”

"It's mine, now. He gave it to me, and now it's mine" Mundungus averted his gaze once again, to bring it on her. "Nefertiti.." "It's mine!" she shouted, her anger filling the room with the echo of her words. "While should he get to have it returned to him!" Edgar didn't flinch. His gaze never averted from the ghost. He did not let his curiosity get the better of him and inquire who she was or why Fletcher gave her gifts. He was not here was fun. His research wasn't of academic nature to later be published in a journal. This was the life of his best friend. "Because it's not mine. He thought he was stealing something from me, but it's not mine, not me to steal it from." "It's mine!" Nefertiti shouted, her anger filling the room with the echo of her words. "Why should he get to have it returned to him?!" Edgar didn't flinch. His gaze never averted from the ghost. He did not let his curiosity get the better of him and inquire who she was or why Fletcher gave her gifts. He was not here was fun. His research wasn't of academic nature to later be published in a journal. This was the life of his best friend. "Because it's not mine. He thought he was stealing something from me, but it's not mine, not me to steal it from."

Nefertiti narrowed her eyes as her gaze was fixed on Edgar. "Lies," she answered, setting her jaw into a tight, stubborn line. "Excuses. You are all so good at them." She moved closer. One step, two, as if any moment she could just charge at him, maybe even cast an hex. But it was all smoke, even less real and tangible than that. "You call yourself ward. Why not jailer. Either way, it's with me now. I won't let anyone take it from me." Her hand too was now clenched, closed tightly in a fist which sadly could not hold anything any longer. "Nefertiti.." Mundungus tried, once more, to call her name.

"Stop! You gave it to me, and it's mine now!"

He dipped his head the way a scolded child does when reminded of his wrongdoings. But Mundungus was hardly ever the man to care about being bad. She had stepped closer to Edgar, he was stepping back, into the darkness.  "Seems there isn't much I can do, Bones," he said, a little too cheery a tone for the situation the three of them found themselves in, as his figure disappeared until only the red burning dot of his cigarette remained. "Unless you want to try and changer her mind."

Those were beautiful words the ghost spoke, and Edgar raised his eyebrows. His lips parted but before he could speak, Fletcher intervened. Or tried to. Failed to. His voice game for the shadows then, from the very corners of Edgar's eyes. "Your name is Nefertiti?" he asked the ghost. Calm, but stern still.

Nefertiti's face twisted in annoyance, and she would've surely given Mundungus' a glare if she had not decided her enemy was Edgar. "Yes. It is my name, but it won't help you defeat me," she said, sure than he wouldn't know how to use a person's true name to fight them. "And I know your name, too. Edgar Bones."

Names held power, that was true. The fae folk used it, and so did the gods. But Edgar was neither, nor did he want to defeat a ghost. "My name's just a man's name, it holds no importance. But Nefertiti... Were you a queen?"

She had been confident and unshakable in her anger only a moment before, yet Edgar's question seemed to come from nowhere. "What it matters to you?" she asked, tilting her chin up in a gesture that was as much a defense as it was an attack. "Would you leave, then, if I were a queen ordering you to go? Because then I am queen of this place, and I order you to go," she commanded, even extending her arm, her thin, elegant finger pointing in the direction Edgar had arrived from. "But if you are trying to sweet-talk to me about my days as Queen of Egypt, then, you are out of luck. There were as many Nefertiti as there are Marys."

Beautiful words. If Edgar's heart had not been held by the tight grip of fear over losing Caradoc's heart, he would've allowed himself to wonder if her beautiful words weren't why Fletcher seemed so close to her. Perhaps would've even smiled. Instead, he focused on finding out the truth -- not the humor. "Is that why he gifts you trinkets from the world above? Because you think you're still a queen and he's your servant?"

Somewhere not too far a pebble seemed to shift with the passing of the wind in the tunnel as elsewhere the train was moving from station to station. It was interesting that chose exactly the moment after Edgar's question to do so.

Nefertiti didn't notice, though, she was too stunned by the question itself. Her face seemed unsure on what reaction to settle on. Surprise. Confusion. Hilarity. Anger. "What nonsense," she said, pushing the words our, but there was something in there, a note that was unstable as a pebble so easily moved by a distant wind.  Oh, it was true, that was hardly the reason. But what was it? "What are these questions? I've been already generous with my patience, here, do not ask more of it. Speak clearly of what is that you are trying to gain with these silly theories. Or I shall show you how I get rid of unwanted guests."

Much like when conducting interviews with actors and directors, it wasn't in the journalist's hand to put his own doubts into their mouths. The ghost said his question was nonsensical, and so it was his job to note it down and believe it. But much like a journalist as well, it was also his decision whether to question further, follow his instincts to the truth.  A decision he didn't make. She wanted clarity, and he wasn't opposed to it.

"I'm asking to understand which right he has to gift you something that is not his, and which right you have to keep it. If he took it without me giving it to him, why would I not simply take it back without you giving it to me? Neither me, him, nor you are the righteous owner of this key."

"You want to speak about rights, do you?!" Her anger returned, where Edgar's nonsensical question had brought doubt into her mind, his direct approach stirred the fire of her anger back to life. "Take it back, if you can pay the price of stealing from me. I'll haunt you until the day you die. I'll make sure to make all of your days miserable, bring you to tears until you can't muster any more water to give me.. and still find a way to squeeze more of it out of you." Her smile was cruel, then, when she added, "now, think carefully, is it really worth it?"

Her anger was terrifying. All anger was terrifying, but the one of a ghost all the more. Without meaning to, Edgar took a step back, the nails of his fingers digging deep into the palm of his hand. But it were the last of her words full of anger spoken, which re-solidified his decision, had him draw in a deep breath and exhale it slowly as he nodded. "I'm not as good of a thief as he is, but I can provide. I have nothing in my life but to ward this key and if by doing so, I become a servant to a queen, then so be it." To steal from a dead queen. Oh, Fletcher. Was that what had happened? Eyes too big and hands too quick and now he was the haunted water-bringer to a ghost? There was as much comedy in it as there was tragedy.

Edgar's eyes had fallen to the darkness where Fletcher had disappeared, now he raised them back to the ghost. "Will it free him, then? If I steal from you and you haunt me, and I'll be your new servant. Will it free Mundungus?"

It should've been tempting, this promise that Edgar Bones was so ready to make her, but it failed to grasp her heart the way it should have. It was almost funny the idea that she would at last be Queen, even if with only one wix to serve her, and her vanity was the one tempted her to play with him, have him be her toy to command as she pleased. But that last question angered her again, the way it had when Edgar had first asked for his key back. He was trying to steal from her, in more ways than one.

"What do you care most? The key, or him? You can't have both." You can't have either, she thought, stubborn. But while she could not admit it, yet, there was only one of those things she would hold onto even more fiercely than as she had promised to.

So she too had fallen a little bit in love with Mundungus, hadn't she? It almost made him smile.

"The key," he answered, simply. Simple in its phrasing, as that he saw no reason to explain to her why that was. That Caradoc's life would always be put above all others,  excluding Amelia's. And simple in its tone, because he saw no reason to put unreal pathos into this answer. If she was going to take offense that his decision didn't seem like a hard one to make, then he'd have to deal with it, and if Mundungus himself, perhaps still around somewhere, was going to take offense in it, then, well, Edgar might just find a little big of joy in that. "Where is it? Will you bring it to me or must I go look for it myself?" He took a step towards the ghost, towards darkness, there were Mundungus was most likely still hiding.

The Key.

Nefertiti was too proud to speak, now. Her pride stopped her from acknowledging that there was more to Edgar Bones than what she came to expect from the modern wix, who she had long ago decided to label as nothing more than thieves. This time, he seemed ready to pay a price for what he was taking away from her and she would make sure he'd pay it. She would make them all pay...

Lost in her anger, in the reason of her ghostly existence, Nefertiti guided Edgar to the shrine that Mundungus had, slowly, through the years, built her. The shelves were built of salvage materials, and lined on them where all kind of trinkets. Photos, figurines, jewels, letters, even a simple pen, a button and a broken teacup. Each far too dear to someone who was now mourning their loss.

There, on one of these shelves, sat Edgar's key to Caradoc's heart.

"I will haunt you," she reminded him, once again, before he could reach for it. Her last warning.

Edgar couldn't quite help it. As he followed her shine, his gaze grazed the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mundungus somewhere. But he was not to be found and instead a shrine appeared before him, grand in its own way, and he quickly understood what sort of treasures it held.

"No, you won't," he replied, softly, and for the first time he let her name ring in his head as he looked at her. Neferiti. A queen in her own right, in her own realm. "Poets have always misunderstood it when writing about love, but there is a difference in stealing something and something being given to you. In being stolen from and giving something away." He reached for underneath his cravat, the thin leather band onto which a locket was tied, a curl of Amelia's hair in it. He wore things far more valuable on him. The silk cravat, the silver watch, even the other few rings and pins hanging in his ears, made of gold and gemstones. But neither of them seemed to fit her shrine, while his devotion to Amelia did.

He undid the knot and placed the locket to the other trinkets, giving it a last brush of the thumb before taking the key.

"If you want to haunt me, though, I live in the House of Bones, near Hastings. My sister insists we have a couple of ghosts, so you might make some friends. Of course," he looked back into the darkness, "I suppose he'll miss you." He gave her a last look, then turned towards the light of the exit to leave. "Then again, I'm sure he'll quickly find himself a new queen to serve."

Nefertiti was ready to argue with him, to be miffed about the arrogance he seemed to show her. How dare he say she wouldn't hold faith to her own words? But before she could put her ghostly lungs to work, he was once again confusing her with his words. Except it wasn't exactly confusion, was it? She understood what he spoke of. After all, she treasured the trinkets not because they had been stolen, but because they had been gifted. To her. By him.

And now, Edgar was gifting her something and her gaze couldn't help caress the shape of the locket. It brought a wave of sadness to peek from under all her anger.

"What a bunch of nonsense!" she scoffed, trying hard to shake this awful feeling that made her feel dead and alive at the same time. "I have no interest in travelling through this awful country only to meet more of you," her chin was tilted up again, "and that one only serves himself. He is squatting at my place, and I'll drive him out. Which reminds me, you have what you came for.. now, leave."

[fletchermundungus]

the luncheon

arabellafiggaf​:

For one brief, blissful moment Arabella imagined just that – giving Fletcher the shove he was so clearly asking for. Even in Ophelia’s body she was much taller than him, it would be no issue. And she imagined it would be immensely satisfying too. But the moment passed and unfortunately, she had no time for indulgences. Instead, she could only scowl at him and at his continued dedication to trying to get her to leave.

“Oh, she insisted that I still attend,” Arabella explained, forcing the scowl into a tight smile, even as the words were spoken through clenched teeth. Vivian had done no such thing, naturally, but she’d hardly expected Arabella to stay with her either. Their friendship didn’t really exist outside of these events, unsurprisingly. But while Mundungus could probably figure as much, his character had no way of knowing and neither did Furnifold. So she let the smile to fall into something more sweet and composed and continued, “We were both very shocked and saddened by what happened – as is everyone else, I’m sure. What a truly terrible thing.” She shook her head. “How could I miss out on the chance to help?”

Once again, the smile slipped at Mundungus’ response. He was so frustratingly irritating and it was making it hard for Arabella to keep up her charade – clearly they need to have a chat. Away from this Furnifold person. “The honour would be all mine,” she said quickly, turning to him once again. Normally, she’d take this chance to find out more about this soiree of his, like who else was invited and such, but with Mundungus here, she couldn’t find the patience to bother with that. All she could do was let out a laugh of pleased surprise as he offered her the card and reach out to take it, making sure to look appropriately impressed. “I do like cards! Although I’m afraid my skill doesn’t quite match my enthusiasm.” Which would probably be like catnip to this silly man, she thought and wished she could roll her eyes. “And I assume I can expect to see you there as well, Mr Dedlock? I do hope you’ll recognise me this time.”

Mundungus doubted anyone had insisted for Arabella to attend this event, aside from Arabella herself. She proved once again to be annoyingly stubborn, and he was left with no way to contest her words. He could hardly say he knew her friend and what words the two had exchanged when he was not suppose to know her.

“She did? What an generous friend,” he said, not capable of completely concealing the sarcasm in his voice. He wanted a retort to that so badly, something about how a friend would prefer to suffer alone than be subject to Arabella’s presence, but words failed him to construct the perfect quip and he was left having to listen to her going on with her excuses for being here.  “Yes, truly terrible,” but he was thinking about Arabella’s presence and not what had happened in Diagon Alley. Certainly not what had happened at the Potter Estate, either. “But we are glad you are here to help us out finishing this cucumber sandwiches. Just careful not to choke on them... can be quite vicious.”

But the real blow was watching Furnifold offer one of his cards to Arabella and inviting her to his soiree. She had managed it in a matter of few minutes, while Mundungus had had to listen to this pig talk for over half an hour. 

"I find enthusiasm much more precious than skill,” Furnifold said, smiling at Arabella, with somewhat of a light flirt in the way he approached now,  “as it can hardly be taught, while I could always help with refining your skills.”

Mundungus’ lips twitched for a brief moment, a grimace of disgust showing up on his face soon to be replaced by a fake smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world,” he quickly replied, through gritted teeth and narrowed eyes meant to convey that he would gladly try to cast a silent wandless hex her way. Luckily, for her, he was not capable of it. “I’m sure it’d be hard for me to forget such a...,” nuisance, “charitable lady with an enthusiasm for,” messing with my plans, “cards. Let’s just hope your friend recovers by then, or that she will be as kind as she was today to spare your company. Oh,” he added, with barely any pause, “say, Mr Nadgett, isn’t that Wharton Wigglesworth?”

The name seemed enough to distract Furnifold from his attempt to woo Arabella, and his eyes quickly darted to look for the aforementioned Wharton Wigglesworth. “The gall that man has to show his face here,” he squealed in anger, “if you would excuse me. Dedlock. Miss Hopkins.” He gave barely a nod of acknowledgement to Mundungus, while he still took the time to look at Arabella and properly bow before going off to hunt down for Mr Wigglesworth.

[fletchermundungus]

spellnbone·:

“What?” Edgar asked, and the word tumbled out of him with just too little composure to make it sound a) like a mocking but barely invested ‘what’ or b) a dramatic, playful and over-acted ‘what’ of shock’. It sounded very genuine and very genuine he was about his surprise that this Wix before him had never read Carlisle. “But that’s such an essent-… Wait.” He crossed the room, the poster he’d just taken off dropped into the box without being rolled up first. His hands met the now bare wall, brushing along it curiously until they found what Edgar was looking for, then gave the wall a little knock. The wall let out a sigh, and as though relaxing, it shifted forward, then to the side, revealing a large bookshelf hiding behind it, filled to the brim with stacks and stacks of all sorts of books. Edgar barely needed to skim the titles to know where he’d find Carlisle, reaching for it only a couple of seconds later. It was a small little thing with illustrations made of water-colours, and with it in hands, he turned back to Fletcher. “It’s about this Wizard who wants to find out where clouds come from because he loves clouds so much, and then he discovers there’s a cloud machine in the sky that makes sure the clouds come out in all sorts of shapes. But he loves clouds so much, he decides he wants them all for himself, so he steals the machine and brings it home and-… Well, you can imagine, all sorts of problems arise and it’s-, it’s really funny.” 

He laughed and it was a proper laugh, with sound and melody. “Attention everyone,” he called out to the invisible audience in the room, “we have an anti-banjoist in our midst! Please do not make rash movements or panic, and hold onto your guitars tightly, he might come for them next.” It was silly, and for once Edgar didn’t pause to make sure the other person knew he was being silly, or even really realise that it was out of his habitual serious demeanor around strangers and distant acquaintances. He sobered up a little at the mention of what his research had been for, though. “It was meant to be an article for the Prophet, yes,” he nodded. “But it was never printed. My editor didn’t really care and said it was too niche and I-…” He shrugged. “I didn’t insist. I-…” He hummed. “I don’t really know why. I know those legends are important and there’s probably a lot of people who’d care and I should probably show some journalist integrity but-…” Another hum, another shrug. “Don’t judge me too hard for it, but maybe I thought it would be sad to reveal the secrets of theatre like that. Like it would take the fun out of it. Or like it would mock those who would continue abiding to those rules to avoid haunting.”

At the question of whether he’d not find Fletcher attractive if he were to waddle instead of walk, Edgar merely turned back around to the shelf, a little bit too embarrassed to answer. His eyes fell on an old bottle of Mezcal his father had gotten him for his fifteenth birthday, which had never been opened. A farewell gift to his childhood, thus stored with the books he’d read as a kid. His gaze lingering on the label, he glanced up – but not back – only when the gamble was offered. His lips quirked into a smile. The book in his hands felt warm. “I believe you,” he said. But he didn’t want to play the suggestive game again. Partly because he had just told Fletcher to quit it, partly because he knew he was still way too willing to play it, and wasn’t sure if that was proof enough of how much he needed to avoid it. At least until he had a clear head. At least until those posters were down and Fletcher would be appreciated for who he was now, not who he used to be in this idealised version Edgar had created of him years ago. Back, when the Mezcal had just been bought. He turned back around, When Carlisle Stole The Cloud-Maker still in his hands. “I don’t think it’s of equal worth, at least not for you but-…” He held out the book. “Carlisle for Kent?”

Mundungus’ giggly hiccup went away, but he still looked at Edgar with an amused look in his eyes. Especially because one didn’t need to be particularly smart to know how that phrase ended. Essential reading. Essential reading for wix children. Not devils. His amused smirk widened into a lopsided smile, a little wicked, the way one smiles over an inside joke of some kind. It stayed on his lips even as a little frown formed on his face when he watched Edgar recovering the book in question. His attention was more drawn to the hidden bookcase, and he would’ve eyed longer if Edgar hadn’t gone on a ramble about clouds and machine and something funny. “.... Okay..” he said, clearly confused, and not yet really interested in the book. If anything, knowing it was such essential reading material made him want to ignore it more.

“Mandolins. I would go for mandolins next,” Mundungus corrected him, but he did so with his own dash of dramatics as he put on a Very Serious Expression™ and gave a Very Serious Nod™, the kind he would usually see Caradoc Dearborn give. “The fiddle after that.” For all of his dramatics, though, it was a genuine relief that pervaded him when Edgar told him the article had never been printed in the end. He didn’t really care about the integrity of a journalist—he thought it to be a myth, anyway—but he cared about the theatre, and it would’ve been sad to see all those stories, all those secrets, legends of their own, printed on The Daily Prophet for everyone to read. For everyone to just ignore, turning into nothing more but paper on which to put your cuppa down. “I would’ve judged ya if ya ended up printing ‘em. Ya didn’t, so it’s brilliant,” he replied, with a shrug, as if he had no skin in the game even he had more than that in it. A whole heart. “Because it’s simply not how they are supposed to be told or learned. Ya would’ve sucked all the fun out of it.” And all the life. Edgar was right, it would’ve been like mocking people of the theatre.

His little tease went unanswered, but it didn’t completely failed to hit. Mundungus followed Edgar’s gaze to the bottle of Mezcal surrounded by children literature, and he couldn’t help the pleased and a bit too smug smile on his face as he went back to look at Edgar. His gaze was free to roam and linger, here and there, going unnoticed, and he indulged in it until a bargain was offered, and then he had to finally look at the book.  His rebellious heart wanted to scoff at it. He didn’t want a wix book for wix children. But in Edgar’s hand, it looked so innocent, so pure as they would put it, innit? His rebellious heart then wanted nothing more to get his very impure hands on it. “Well, it isn’t..” he said, unconsciously licking his lips, “but I guess I can make an exception for ya. But ya have to pay upfront,” he added, motioning for Edgar to hand over the book. “Deal?”

[fletchermundungus]

moaningmaddy​:

Maddy’s eyes widened ever so slightly as Lava Lamp spoke, her green full of wonder and pensiveness. So Lava Lamp knew what blue collar jobs were. This could either mean it was a common concept to Wix, or he wasn’t just a Wix. And when the cultural translation followed, Maddy wanted to believe it was the latter. “Scuzzy hands,” she replied, letting the word linger on her tongue. “Tell me more about those jobs, please.”

Maddy was almost vibrating with excitement when Lava Lamp waved her closer to whisper into her ear – and it resulted in the biggest groan of disappointment when the words he said registered. “Fine!” she concluded quite quickly anyway. “This whole pint,” she pointed at it to specify the terms of the agreement, “and when it’s empty to a point that you can see the ground, you’ll tell me. The truth.” And no, she didn’t pick up the pint right away to gobble away on the beer, because nothing in the agreement said she had to drink it in one go, and she wasn’t about to get drunk all at once before having some potatoes in her. She was perhaps a little green when it came to alcohol, but she wasn’t stupid.

With her head still leaned back against the backrest of the booth, she pointed at the necklace around her neck. “Same Old as before,” she answered, still chewing as well. And without looking at him, eyes still closed, she pointed at him, “and don’t think I forgot you still owe me your good thoughts and the rest of that story.” 

Well, there it was a first for Mundungus. Never before someone had asked him to speak about scuzzy hands. He wondered if this was simply Maddy’s curiosity as a muggleborn, as someone who was new in the wixen world, or if there was something else behind all this seemingly genuine curiosity. After all, she was a wix, too, and while he thought her closer to those scuzzy hands than any other snotty nosed pureblood, she was still allowed to have a wand. For now, he bitterly added, and it pushed him to answer. “Eh, well, y’know how food just appears on the table at Hogwarts? Scuzzy hands work that one. Same goes for production of floo powder.”

He couldn’t help the wide smirk on his face when she agreed to his deal. It didn’t dimmer, if anything it widened even more, when she so cleverly set the terms of their deal. Cheeky. Mundungus liked it. He was starting to like her, too, despite all her quirkiness. Well, because of it, really. “The truth,” he repeated, with a nod of agreement. 

His eyes followed the motion of her hand, noticing the necklace around her neck. He recognised the symbol, yet it still drew a frown on his face. “But ‘holy shit’ is not the Lord’s name, now, innit? I would think you’d be allowed that one,” he said, a little bit curious, too, now. “And aye, aye, I see nothing escapes ya,” this was said with a smile he tried and failed to hide. “I will toast to that,” he added, raising his own pint of beer to toast to her wit.

[fletchermundungus]

justicebones·:

“When we get out of this, I’ll expect that,” Amelia stated, a little firmly, “And I will absolutely expect you to buy me the first pint, and show me what your idea of a scuffle is. Maybe it’ll lead to me finding a good pub to go to, finally.” Not that she was going out to pubs too much lately, not on her own, but it was an idea for later. If anything, she was more focused on the fact that he’d said If, and wondered just how little faith he had in all of them with that comment.

As he appearted with her, Amelia couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the indignation she heard in his voice. “You gonna be okay?” It was a teasing smirk at first, raising an eyebrow at him when she sat the box down and turned to face him. Then she continued, “If it’s one of a kind, then you’ll just have to be careful with it. You know how to do a shield charm, yeah?” It was amusing, really, to hear the sigh in his voice, the way he sounded defeated and knew what she was going to say. As if she would pick anything else, truly.

“Back into the fray,” She chirped simply, twirling her wand in her hand, “Of course. Those are our people back there, and they need our help. So, put on your big boy pants and let’s head back. Make sure we’ve got everything. Help keep those rest of us safe, and then we plan out that pub trip, yeah?” She grinned.

.

Mundungus appreciated the fact that Amelia had said ‘when’ and not ‘if’, even if he wasn’t sure it meant she was being realistic about their chances or this was some Gryffindor bravado. Was she a Gryffindor? He had no idea, but he hoped she wasn’t because while Hogwarts houses didn’t matter anymore, he still didn’t want to owe his life—be it saved or doomed—to a Gryffindor. “Ya got yourself a deal, luv,” he said, and Merlin and Morgana he would do all of that for Amelia if—no, when they’d made it out of this fight.

“Yeah, yeah, just.. need a smoke,” and about four shots of firewhiskey, but he at least didn’t mention those. He would do with lighting up another cigarette, and clicking his tongue at her cheeky question. “Aye, aye, I know how to cast one,” he quipped back, finding that this light banter between them helped soothe his nerves. Of course, he was still scared, he would’ve gladly left Amelia to fight for herself, but he couldn’t, could he? Not when there was talk of a trip at the pub afterwards.

“I’m not so convinced they specifically need me help,” he said, because of course the fact that Mundungus was going to follow Amelia Bones back intro battle didn’t necessary mean that he would do so in silence. At least not while they could still talk without risking their lives for it. “And first we were like rushing and now ya are suggesting a whole wardrobe change, really, luv, make up your mind,” he teased her, but with his wand firmly clutch in his hand, he had no doubts about where he was going. “Bet ya three galleons and five sickles, I’mma stun more of those wankers than ya,” he offered, right before apparating back to the Potter Estate.

When they had left before, it had been only them into the study. But now, someone else was there to ‘greet’ their arrival, and it was not with kind words and some tea.

Mundungus reaction was simple: “Duck!”

[fletchermundungus]

the luncheon

arabellafiggaf·:

She’d heard about Furnifold Nadgett. Agreeable enough, the pureblood ladies – her main source of gossip – agreed, but surely had to cheat at card games. Somehow he managed to win every time he played with their darling husbands and for that, the ladies were a bit resentful. Neither Arabella nor Ophelia had any reason to share their opinion, but if Furnifold hung around the likes of Mundungus Fletcher, then Arabella found herself more than inclined to believe he really was a cheat.

Oh, she was sure Mundungus himself loved to pretend all his alter egos were so different and unique, but the core shone right through. A crook and a half was all any of them were. And he had the gall to imply she was the one out of place!

“That’s alright,” she said, voice as tight as her smile. “We all know someone like that, don’t we? Who just can’t seem to understand their time is better wasted elsewhere? No matter how many times they’re told to stay out of that which doesn’t concern them? I agree with you, it’s very frustrating.” The only instance where she would willingly agree with him, really. If he had some sudden epiphany to realise that it was him who had to leave, that would make two. “But I’ve found sometimes they just need a push in the right direction. That being towards the door.”

She noticed Furnifold stepping away from Mundungus – how smart of him – and softened as he turned to speak to her. “Just about, yes. I was actually looking for my friend, Vivian DeRogna, but I was told she was unfortunately ill.” It had truly been unfortunate, because Vivian was very pureblooded and very airheaded; she’d been half the reason Arabella had come to the luncheon. Fortunately, there were plenty of other people who could also prove to be useful – and a Mundungus Fletcher who was entirely not useful. “I’m terribly sorry, did I interrupt you two?”

“Would we be so lucky if that was all that was needed,” Mundungus quipped back, trying not let on his own frustration at Arabella’s reply which was not what he had wanted from her. “Sometimes one my shove more than push.” He had to hold himself back from doing exactly that, because he had not missed Furnifold’s little step or how the man now seemed more interested in Arabella and her lame character Ophelia than Mundungus and his far superior Theophylaktos.

“Oh, how unfortunate, indeed,” he said, unable to completely erase the sarcasm from his voice, “maybe she needs a friend by her side right now,” he quickly suggested, hoping that maybe Arabella would go chase Vivian DeRogna and her incessant gossiping mouth. 

“Yes,” Mundungus replied, just as Furnifold said, “Never."

“We were just talking about the next events in the seasons, idle chit chat,” Furnifold went on, while Mundungus’ face betrayed his annoyance with both of them, now, “but I can’t help but wonder if you’d do me the honour of attending my little soiree, next month? There will be food, music, and the finest conversation,” he said, offering her a card he conjured in his hand with an elegant sleight of hand. “Also a bit of game. Do you like cards, dear?”

[fletchermundungus]

moaningmaddy·:

“Infamous, really, but you know how it is. Blue collar sticks together.” Did Wix know the concept of blue collar work? She’d never asked anyone, so obviously the question came out quickly: “Is ‘blue collar work’ something known to the Wizarding World, by the way?” It was obvious that Wix had a class system and different types of jobs, but none of them really qualified as blue collar, seeing how no one ever really worked with their hands. Right?

Her ears perked up, along with her eyebrows, as Lava Lamp switched right back into the other language, her face lightening up. “Come ooooon,” she whined – half-laughing, “tell meeee! What language is it?!” And no, she did not at all catch the Cockney way of answering it. “You can write it down if you want? Or whisper it into my ear?” And she offered said ear, leaning over the table and the bright green sauce on the table. 

“Oh, I love that!” she beamed, meaning it because, well, somehow it showed that Lava Lamp hadn’t just responded to her words without really listening. At least some of it had stuck, and maybe it was akin to a proof that she really had made a friend. She clinked their glasses and then mirrored Lava Lamp on how to drink it. She had of course witnessed people drinking shots many times before (had even practiced it once before a mirror with fanta) but she’d never quite understood what the grimace meant that people pulled after a shot until now. Her grimace was loud and expressive, and followed by a rattling gasp for air. “Holy shit!” she wheezed, immediately slamming her hand – still holding the glass and thus slamming the glass – against Richard. “Sorry!” She was still gurgling from the burning in her mouth, throat, oh God it was reaching her stomach now! when she reached for the egg and stuffed it into her mouth. And bless. What a relief it was. She didn’t know if the taste was good or just good in comparison to whatever that horrendous drink was, but she chewed happily, sinking in on herself happily.

“Eh, no, not really,” Mundungus shook his head at her question. “Most wix wouldn’t be able to grasp the idea of being forced to wear just one colour at work despite the fact that some of them seems to think black is the only one there is out there, not to mention manual work. But I guess ya could say there are ‘scuzzy hands’ instead of blue collars.” Goblins, squibs, house elves and giants were the second-class citizen of the wixen world, to name a few, and they were all without wands.

His eyes widened a little, looking almost incredulously at Maddy’s antics. There was something beautifully dramatic about it that made her look like a young child, with the perfect mix of cute and annoying. So, of course, he gave in enough to whisper into her ear, “knowledge comes with a price. Ya drink the whole pint and I’ll tell ya.” 

It would surely prove an entertaining sight as it was watching her drink down her first shot of firewhiskey. It was almost like being back with actors, naturally making a show of every little thing, only with much less ego involved—it felt nice, familiar even despite this being their first encounter. Mundungus was also proud that she wasn’t spitting her firewhiskey out and that she had even gone for one of the eggs with no hesitation. He clapped at that, and he took an egg for himself, too. Chewing around it, he asked, “Who are ya saying sorry to, anyway?” amusingly confused by that. “I ain’t shy about cursing, y’know, and I certaintly ain’t gonna scold ya for it.”

[fletchermundungus]

bristlybranwen​:

Bran frowned deeply at Fletcher’s next bullshittery, but caught on when the little exchange ensued and stomped ahead, not looking back to give her face away. She didn’t even really make halt at the goblin, and was glad they weren’t once again stalling for double-tongued devil’s talk, only coming to a halt when they were through the Chimney at the address the brazier had spat out for them.

“Shut up, I’m thinking,” she said, and what she really meant with that was: I have no idea what we’re doing next. She wasn’t someone who planned. Wasn’t someone who could even see plans fully to the end. She just saw the next step and took it, and when there was no next step, she found herself incapable of moving. Eventually, having looked at the paper for quite some time, she cleared her throat. “If they’re really family of the young dead Witch,” Witch, not Muggleborn for once, “then they’ll recognise us for who we are.” Muggles had the most amazing talent at not noticing anything Wix related. They could walk through a whole crowd of Wizards in the street, and forget about it the next second. But if those people really knew who Catherine Miller had been, what she had been, they would remember. Would recognise Bran and Fletcher’s clothes, the wands in their hands, as something familiar. 

Whatever that meant, was left to be found out. That was two steps ahead, and Bran didn’t wait to figure it out. She just marched ahead, down the street, stopping at each of those old timbered sea-side houses to find the name Miller. The search lasted an hour, almost two, during which Bran ignored Fletcher almost entirely and cursed that the one piece of evidence which could’ve made Miller’s energies show up had been burnt to even get here. Until they got to a river, and suddenly Bran had an epiphany. “Bloody horseshite,” she hissed, and with new-found determination, she stomped ahead faster. 

Her instinct proved her right, though. A water mill was nestled into an arm of the river, and less than ten minutes later she found the name pranking on the house next door. It seemed odd to her, the idea that even Muggles had their traditions and heritages that shone in their names, but she didn’t pause to think about what that meant. She knocked. Hard. There was light inside, someone had to be home. She knocked again. And again. And finally, the door opened.

“Just a moment,” a woman’s voice called from inside, unlocking the door. “I’m sorry to let you wait, is the doorb-…” The woman, perhaps in her forties or fifties, recoiled when she laid eyes on Bran. “No!” she exclaimed, her voice breaking into a whisper, and she slammed the door back shut in their face. “John!” she screamed and steps were to be heard, fast, away, and Bran didn’t wait. She pointed her wand at the door to unlock it, then pushed herself through, just in time to see the woman and, presumably her husband, presumably John, trying to run upstairs. “John!” she screamed again, giving the man a push to walk faster, but he was old, much older than her, and each step seemed to strain his whole body, causing it to tremble. He wasn’t even looking back, just so focussed on getting upstairs, and still he was slow, so slow, and so the woman turned around, arms spread out, like an animal trying to make itself look bigger, or perhaps to block Bran to pass her. “Get out of my house!” she screamed, with her full voice this time, and Bran? Bran stood still. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Shocked. And… Tears were welling up in her eyes.

Mundungus did not like the situation he found himself in. Not only because it involved a dead muggleborn and possible multiple dead muggles, but also because there was no fun to this particular adventure. Gone was the thrill of sticking it to the Ministry and having it made into one of their most guarded places, and now he could only nervously lit himself another cigarette while Branwen thought about their next move.

It was tempting to just mumble a quick goodbye and leave, what would she need him for anyway? It’s not like she was planning to get into another highly guarded place inside the Ministry, or visit some posh pureblood estate. No, no, Branwen instead wanted to go talk to muggles. Of course, why stop the night after almost getting caught breaking into the Ministry when one can also get themself caught for breaking the Statue of Secrecy? 

“Bollocks,” he swore around his cigarette, following here despite every surviving instinct he had told him to just leave and let Branwen deal with this alone. She was a big, tall woman, she could do it. “Yeah, I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to see us,” he joked, but after that he forced himself to keep his mouth shut. He was really applying himself, and most likely she would barely notice!

Mundungus had not quite caught up to Branwen’s reasoning that lead them to the water mill, not until a voice answered from inside. "Wait, Bran...,” he started, but it was too late. The woman had opened the door and taking in their appearance had started screaming. 

What the two of them must have look like to them? Branwen was a tall, black woman dressed in distinctive wix clothing. Mundungus was a short white man, whose style mixed in some muggle elements taken from the punk culture but with a wix twist to them—from the patches and pins of wix music bands, to the flashy colours of the pixies printed on his shirt. 

“Hullo, look we don’t want to do ya any harm, luv,” he intervened, putting himself between the woman and Branwen, hands raised and empty even of his beloved cigarette that was stuck between his lips at the corner of his mouth. “We just need to talk to ya about whatever it is that scared the two of you so much to scream bloody murder at the mere sight of us. Especially because I’m wearing me best shirt, right now. Well,” he tilted his head a little, but being carefully to keep his hands always up and free, “maybe second, no, fourth-best. It’s clean. And me friend here, she may look tough but she’s a big softie. So, we just wanna talk. See, no wands, no tricks, so how about a cuppa, eh?”

[fletchermundungus]

spellnbone​:

“I admit…” Edgar hummed, eyebrows having risen during Fletcher’s speech but giving it yet another little quirk upward as he said that. “I’ve gone bonkers over less.” Though sometimes, dealing with the Order, felt a lot like being a prop master running after jinxed knives, nonexistent kneazles, and murderous spoons. And when Fletcher insinuated the murderous spoon had become murderous not despite but because of the prop master, Edgar let out a little gasp. Humorous but also earnest because he’d actually never thought about this possibility. “You’re speaking the devil’s tongue,” he said, sounding more impressed than accusatory. “Mind you, my sister’s a judge in the Wizagamot, and we should be careful when going around accusing people. Next thing we know, he’s sent to Corbeau’s Prison for Crooks and Crooked Backs.” A made-up Prison from a Wizarding children’s book (When Carlisle Stole The Cloud-Maker), where people of petty crime or people with bad backs were sent to to be taught how to ‘be a straight fellow’. 

“That’s exactly the reason, yes!” He almost sounded excited now, and catching his own voice leaving it’s habitual soft register, he cleared his throat. “Yes, that’s how I found out about Betty Burnett’s incident in the first place. I was researching the Curse of the Green, the Left Side of the Orchestra Pit is Haunted in every Theatre, the Banjo Ban, and of course the Ban of Spoons. All sorts of theatre myths, some of them with their strangest sources.”  However his wide-eyed expression changed quickly into a disgusted frown when Fletcher spoke on. “The word spork is a vile thing,” he said. “Akin to a terribly forbidden union, something like an act between beast and man, that’s the emotion spork evokes.” 

“There’s so many of those posters, your pockets would get full eventually, and if I didn’t give you a box, you’d be forced to waddle out of here like a Chaser after a three-day-long Quidditch match,” Edgar explained, simply. “Oh, no you’re making things up! There’s no bootlegs of Kemp! That’s only one of those urban legends that someone somewhere has once seen a Kemp bootleg. Never is it true that they actually exist.” And in the same breath, with the same tone of his voice: “Is it true that they actually exist?!”

It was a common expression among wix, and Mundungus had grown used to hear it and just smirk at it or maybe exchange The Look™ with someone who, like him, still remembered where that expression came from. And, indeed, his lips did curve into a smirk, but he couldn’t help wonder if Edgar knew, if he was at all aware how right and insulting he had been in that moment. It seemed to be Edgar’s fate to end up insult the person he had been such a big fan of once upon a time.

Mundungus couldn’t contain the laugh that rose at the realisation, even if he tried at first, resulting in what sounded like a mix between an hiccup and a giggle. “Happy to say never heard of that prison,” he said, between one giggly hiccup and the next. Indeed, it was not the type of literature it had been read to him as a child. All of his bedtime stories were either plays, goblin’s tales or his grandmother’s exploits. “It doesn’t sounds very nice anyway, and how could it be when it sounds so French?” he added, with a little shrug of his shoulders and an amused smirk on his face.

After all, even if this time it had been difficult to just shrug those words off, he couldn’t help but share Edgar’s excitement over tales of theatre life. He had been as equally excited as a kid, and even these days it brought him a peculiar kind of happiness to think about those stories and how one comes to learn about them and how you could unravel the mysteries they presented.

“Do ya really need to research the Banjo Ban, though? Doesn’t the name already tell ya everything ya need to know?” he teased him, mostly because he had not been less curious and even now curiosity had the better of him. “Well, what exactly do you consider most strange? Because living the backstage, everything sort of starts to feel normal.” And it was true. What felt strange to Mundungus was what most wix considered normal. “By the way, what did ya do with all this research, though? Did ya write about it on the Daily Rag?” Now, here, there was something that wasn’t teasing, more like a sense of protectiveness over what were secrets that really ought not to be shared with those who didn’t care about the theatre and what happened backstage.

Mundungus wasn’t about to tell Edgar that the pockets of his jacket were charmed to hold even more than the stack of posters they were gathering, and they were indeed filled with even more junk than the one present in the very room they were in. “Are ya saying I wouldn’t look good waddling like a Chaser after a three-day-long Quidditch match?” Pause. “Tsk.” Tongue click. 

Then, a mischievous look came about him as Edgar accused him once again of speaking the devil’s tongue, even if not in such exact words. He smiled looking all too pleased of the situation. “Well, well, you have two choices now. Either ya think I’m speaking the devil’s tongue again and risk on missing out watching a Kemp bootleg. Or believe me and have to persuade me to show ya one.” He wiggled his eyebrows, a bit suggestive but mostly to playfully tease him.

[fletchermundungus]

Austin, back me up here.

[fletchermundungus]

At Home in Hackney

LOCATION: Hackney, London DATE: March 23rd, 1982 CHARACTERS: Mundungus, Cleometra and Calypso Fletcher

It was no cold spectral hand passing through him, or poking fork that woke Mundungus up, but an heavy weight settling on his chest and meowing right into his ear.

“Oi!” he shouted at the stray, a half-kneazle half-cat. It was both the usual reaction to any of creature’s antics and the short form of its full name Oi, watcha doing ya cursed beast.

Yet, for all of Mundungus’ attempts to get the cat off his chest, it was the banging on the door that managed to have it leap back onto the windowsill and then out the window. As if the little fellow had also recognised to whom that heavy hand belonged to.

“Get up, I ain’t keeping ye breakfast warm,” Mundungus’ grandmother shouted. “And wash up before ya come in the kitchen, ya don’t want yer mum seeing ya like that.”

A grunting noise was his only reply as he turned on the other side, blanket shifted to cover him completely, but he knew better than stay underneath it no matter how warm and comfortable it was there. He was still in a daze, more asleep than awake, as he got up from the bed in his childhood bedroom and walked to the bathroom. It was his face reflected back at him to fully wake him up, on it proof that there were things he couldn’t simply shrug or laugh off. And as any good thief, Mundungus made sure to get rid of it before anyone else could catch him with it. The cold water and lavender soap helped with that, erasing most traces of the previous night from it. Yet, they couldn’t erase everything. His eyes were still a bit red and his muscles felt sore, but he could lie to himself that this wasn’t different than any other morning after a wild night at the pub.

With a cigarette already lit between his lips, and old but clean clothes on him, Mundungus joined his grandmother in the small kitchen of the house he and his mother had both grown up in. 

“Goodmorning, nan,” he said, kissing her cheek.

“Yea, yea, all sweet now,” she lamented, even though she did not push him away, “after coming here a mess. What if yer mum had seen ya? Ya would’ve scared her and she would be fussing it about all night.” 

“While ya only fuss about in the morning,” he teased her, grabbing the slice of bagel as it came out from the toaster.

“Don’t be cheeky with me, now, and sit. Why are ya always standing up?” She pulled out a chair for him and pushed him to sit down. Taller than him by three inches and even more willful, Cleometra knew how to boss her grandson around. “Don’t try running away before ya tell me what’s going on and why ya came home looking like that.” Her hand patted his shoulder, in a small gesture of reassurance, but underneath it Mundungus tensed as he was reminded of the face he had seen in the mirror only moments before.

“Nothing...” he said, sheepishly, and tried to focus all his attention and energy on putting butter on the bagel. 

The cigarette was snatched from his lips and it found itself between her fingers. 

“Speak up. I can never understand a word ya say when you mumble like that,” she scolded him.

A pout appeared on his face immediately. A childish yet vulnerable look on him.  “I said.. it’s nothing,” he repeated, making sure not to fall into the temptation of mumbling each word as it came out of his mouth. But his grandmother didn’t seem convinced, and he only had to dare a quick glance her way to see the sceptical expression on her face even through the thin veil of the cigarette smoke now that she was the one smoking it.

 “I.. I had this big job lined up..” so far so good, yet his voice broke again into a mumble as he went on, “..and.. it kinda.. fell.. through..” It was embarrassing to admit this to her. She wasn’t simply his grandmother. She was his mentor and the person he aspired to be when it came to his career as a thief and con-man. There had been moments when he had wanted to show off to her what he had been able to achieve with Lu’s help, having a muggleborn roaming around the British pureblood society like one of them. How even those that would be horrified to know the truth, nay especially them, were so in love with Lu and would do anything for a scrap of their time. 

But Mundungus never had the chance to tell her. It was meant to be a secret, and then most of the work had been Lu, innit? They were the one with the charisma and the talent to keep the ruse up and have everyone drinking from the palm of their muggleborn hand. He hadn’t done much. Forged the papers and coached them on who was who, making sure there wouldn’t be any big blunders.  

“Well, so?” Cleometra asked, once the silence between them had stretched for far too long. “Did the mark make ya? Are the minnies after ya?”

Chewing his breakfast, Mundungus shook his head. No one was after him and all that had been done to him the night before, he had been the one to do it to himself.

“Did ya have a partner and they ran out with the score?”

The bagel almost choked him. Or at least, that’s what Mundungus would say it happened. Just bad timing.

“Ah,” Cleometra said, with the tone of someone who had figured out the problem. 

Mundungus didn’t know what would be worse, if she were to be disappointed in him or simply pitying him. He only knew that he did not have the courage to face either, feeling already ashamed to have made his way back here looking the way he had, after being left behind by another wix and having nothing to show for it, so like the coward he was he didn’t dare to look at her.

“Mundus!” His mother called him with genuine cheer in her voice. Her arms embraced him without restraint and engulfed him into a warm hug. “My baby is here,” she sang, as her lips peppered his cheeks with kisses.

“Mum. Mum... Mum! I can’t breathe,” he protested, but he wasn’t pushing her away with conviction. “I’m also thirty.. I think it’s been some time since I’ve stopped being a baby.”

“Nonsense,” she said, cleaning his cheeks from a little rogue her kisses had left on them. “Right, mum?”

“Just sit down and eat breakfast without making so much noise, Callie,” Cleometra replied, gentle despite the roughness of her words. She passed around the food, while Calypso, having finally let go of Mundungus, started to pour the tea. “Mun,” she then called him, sharply, “ya should go visit Mrs Moskovitz and help her grandson out.”

"Whut?” The bagel fell off from Mundungus’ mouth. “Not Mrs Moskovitz. Ugh, why?”

“Oh, that would be so nice, wouldn’t it, Mundus,” Calypso commented, adding the milk to their teas. “Which grandson is this? The solicitor or the healer?”

“You know why,” his grandmother gave him a determined look, “and this one is the healer. The solicitor married and moved to Banchory.”

“Hadn’t he gone to America? New Jersey or something like that?”

“That’s her sister, mum,” Mundungus kept his gaze on his grandmother, having gone back to a pout, “and I don’t want to be involved in your feud with Mrs Moskovitz. Plus, she’ll know right away what I’m there for.”

“Nonsense, why would she know?” Cleometra scoffed at the idea. “That woman has the brain of a drunken chicken. And even if she did, ya know how to get around her and get me that recipe.”

“Mum, that’s not very nice,” Calypso pouted as she scolded her own mother. “And are you still fighting with Mrs Moskovitz? It’s been years.. And it can’t be the sister, didn’t she marry a MacFusty?”

“Well that drunken chicken is gonna bore me to death detailing all her grandchildren’s accomplishments. No, that was Miss Lee.”

"Well, it’s very true, dear, and I don’t care how long it has been: that woman stole me recipe and I want it back. And her sister eloped with that Italian, her brother married a MacFusty, and Mrs Lee moved to New Jersey,” she said, ending that discussion with a knock on the table. “Now, Mun, once you’re in that hag’s house...”

“That can’t be, mum,” Calypso protested, refusing to end it there. “And Mundus, honey, you can still go and just spend time with our neighbours.”

Mundungus joined in, only in part because he wanted to have his grandmother forget everything about her plans to send him to spy on Mrs Moskovitz. “No, no, it was the brother that eloped with the Italian... and I don’t want to spend time with the neighbours. The neighbours are boring.”

All throughout their conversation, his grandmother kept stealing his cigarettes every time he lit one and his mother kept running her fingers through his hair. By the end of the morning, Mundungus’ presence at Mrs Moskovitz had been secured with an owl,  a plan had been formed for him to search the witch’s house to look for the stolen recipe, and they had figured out who had moved to New Jersey, who had eloped with an Italian wix, and who had married a MacFusty.

As he put down the last word for that day The Daily Prophet’s crossword, Mundungus knew that in that small moment spent in that small kitchen, he was truly happy even if he was not completely fine.

[fletchermundungus]

moaningmaddy​:

Maddy laughed. “You’re dumb. I know that your accent’s from London. Even before moving here I knew how cockney sounded.” She hoped Lava Lamp’s reaction wasn’t a proof of him thinking her naive like everyone else. “But you were speaking another language right now. With him. That was another language, right?”

She listened to his story eagerly, wondering where it was going to go when the barkeep interrupted him. “That was fast!” she beamed with delight – an expression that froze on her face when she saw what it was that he’d brought them. “Thank you,” she said anyway and tried her best to sound polite, more than relieved that she had ordered mash. She wasn’t sure she would be brave enough to try the green stuff. “So do we toast?” she asked, lifting one of the shot glasses. “On what?”

“Ah! Happy to know we're that famous,” Mundungus teased her, but she was right, the barkeep had spoken to him in a different language. “Yes. It is another language,” he said, speaking the last line in Gobbledegook before switching back to English, “but it’s better not to speak it too much and too loudly in these parts of Diagon Alley. What with a lot of right aunts,” which was his own Cockney way to say a rhyming word that started with a ‘c’, “roaming around. Usually they turn their nose up and clutch their pearls when hearing it.” Which Maddy had not done.

Mundungus gave a nod of thanks to the bartender while also showing him two fingers for their comment. His cigarette stayed between his lips, nestled in the corner, as he spoke around it. “To Kit Kats and that old bint of Lady Fortuna” he toasted to, raising his shot glass and bringing to clink against Maddy’s, meeting her gaze with his own as he did so. He drank the firewhiskey in one go, pulling down the empty glass on the table and looking at Maddy to see how she was faring. “Good, innit? Now chase it with an egg,” he advised her, opening the jar and picking an egg for her. It sat on a plate he pushed towards her, looking ready to glow in the dark, and that green juice? He was now pouring it in the empty shot glass. “This is the best part.”

[fletchermundungus]

bristlybranwen​:

“The job’s clearly not working out!” Bran hurled the words back, but she did lower her voice into a sharp hiss. But the saw-cutting quality of it dissipated when the brazier finally spit out useful information. Her grip loosened as she blinked and tried to process. 

“Muggleborn.” Her frown deepened and deepened and then it clicked. “Muggles aren’t on the register!” She grabbed the paper and looked around. “We need to go there, right now!”

There was no time to point out all the ways the job had worked out and all the ways it hadn’t. Mundungus was simply glad that Branwen had made their choice and that was to get the Hel out of there. “This way,” he said, pointing in the direction he wanted her to go. Meanwhile, he picked something from the pocket of his jacket, there underneath the Ministry robes he was wearing, and tossed it into the brazier.

Pink smoke started to rose from it, hiding their escape and filling the room with the smell of roses and fried pork cutlet. The wix who had been looking their way, gave out a grown of annoyance. 

“How many times do I have to remind you: the braziers are not the rubbish bin!”

"Hey, I didn’t do it!”

“That was a quick denial...”

“What about you? So ready to turn on others, like that fart yesterday!”

“I said it wasn’t me!”

“So quick to deny it...” 

And in the small chaos that arose, Mundungus and Branwen managed to make it back to the secret passageway. They made it just in time to meet with Grigor again and were escorted out with a clear look of disapproval from the goblin, who was all too happy to see them leave the Ministry and made sure to tell them to never come back again. “Forget my name,” he told them a second before shutting the door in the two wix’s faces.

 “That’s goodbye to Grigor, but I guess our not it’s not over yet,” Mundungus said, really wishing for a cigarette at the moment, but instead riding the adrenaline wave all the way to their new destination as their investigation continued.

Once there, he had to say something to shake off the fear and thrill of almost getting caught, as well as the grim thought that someone had been killing even more Muggles and Muggleborns. “Ya never said anything about hopping around half the island,” he said, combing his hair back after it had started to fall in front of his face, curling at the ends. “What now, anyway? What to talk to the family...?” 

[fletchermundungus]

moaningmaddy·:

“I’m having the same then!” Maddy said, and she was just naive enough to believe that two shots weren’t that much. They were small glasses and she had – hadn’t had food yet, but she would. “And some mash.” And this she managed to say with confidence, because she had had mashed potatoes before at a pub and thus knew it was a common order, and thus felt self-assured in it. It felt good to be sure about something she said. It lasted just long enough to get her through the suddenly foreign languaged conversation Lava Lamp was now having with the barkeep. What language was that! Her eyes were wide and curious and, again, the confidence lasted just long enough for her to call: “And some mash!” 

“What language was that?!” she asked, the moment they were alone again. “Are you Welsh?” he looked Welsh.

Maddy grinned. “You’re scared to tell me?” she asked, or rather noting it, because she knew the shifty way Fletcher was saying it from her siblings when they tried to avoid saying the truth. Deflecting and turning it back around to her. “All right, tell me a story. But I’ll come back to this once you’re … sloshed.” The Cockney accent was fairly famous but it was the first time Maddy actually met someone who spoke like this, and she delighted in it.

“Welsh?!?!” The cigarette almost fell from Mundungus’ lips. He had been called many things in his thirty years, most of which were not even remotely nice, but Welsh had never been one of them. “I ain’t Welsh, luv, and ya better not have anyone heard ya say I am.” His accent only thickening at the insinuation. “Cockney born and bred,” he said, like it was some other country engulfed into the United Kingdom. "He was just been funny in its own way,” he added, waving away the exchange with the barkeep, and finally lighting his cigarette to take that much needed puff of smoke.

Mundungus replied to Maddy’s question and grin with a little smirk of his own. He was a coward, and he was not also aware of it but proud. Cowards tended to live longer lives, according to his experience, and he looked forward to his own. It was good deeds that always brought him trouble, and he didn’t want Maddy to convince him to have even more good thoughts. 

“So picture Paris: nice city, delicious bread, shitty people,” he started, and he could almost feel himself be back to a place where the sun actually shone for more than five minutes a day. “The parties aren’t bad either, especially if ya know which ones to get into. And there everyone is after the latest fashion and looking like a million galleons, indulging every possible vice. So, it’s easy to sweet talk them into sharing a bit of their wealth with a mate.” Of course, Mundungus did more than talk and it usually wasn’t very sweet of him, not to mention he was hardly anyone’s mate. “I’m there, having a marvellous time... drinking Champagne, having a laugh, possibly me hand slipped and I got a wix’s priceless heirloom in me grasp. Details!” said as if those were not at all important. “I end up in a bit of a pickle and—”

Mundungus’ tale was cute short by a loud snort, “we are you not,” the barkeep said, mockingly, as he set down the two pints, four shots, a jar full of eggs swimming in a fluorescent green juice filled with herbs and flowers, and a plate of mash. “Enjoy.”

[fletchermundungus]

justicebones​:

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind for next time, leave the offer on the table,” Amelia quipped back just as easily, smirking to herself at the thought. No, of course she wouldn’t ever just go and break one of Mundungus’ bones, that would be very rude indeed. But teasing him about it and seeing just how nervous she could make him? Well, she wouldn’t rule that out entirely.

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his words, letting out a laugh. “That sounds like a pretty tame idea of a scuffle,” She teased, “And this is war. Bollocks things are bound to happen. Get with the game, yeah?” She snorted then, looking over his jacket and playfully wrinkling her nose, as if judging him. “If it gets ruined, I’ll buy you a new one,” She said, a light offer, as she moved then to apperate to the House of Bones to get the box to safety, knowing he’d follow.

⚖️

“Much appreciated,” he quipped right back, because Mundungus was too nervous to just shut up.

“Ya ain’t going to the right pubs, if that’s your opinion. Gonna take ya to one if we manage to get out of this pickle. First pint is on me,” he said, though he didn’t like his own use of ‘if’. But his own fear was put for just a moment aside when Amelia offered to buy a new jacket, as if this look could be achieve by buying an item and not instead stealing it and perfection it over time. Right now his jacket—black leather that had become soft and a little worn with use—was far from what it had originally been. From the hand-stitching of constellations and flowers, to the added pins of music bands and Quidditch teams. 

But he couldn’t say anything right away because Amelia had disappeared and he couldn’t but follow her. Not that he needed to be told, since he was happy to put the ‘little scuffle’ behind him.

“Ya can’t just buy a new one,” he said, trying not puke right after that and putting the box down. “This is...” he took a big breath, making sure his stomach was done being upset by the apparition, “...one of a kind.”

After that, it was one other breath, this time to ready himself for Amelia’s next orders. “What now, boss? Are we.... are we going back?” he asked, with a little sigh in his voice of someone who could feel the answer would be ‘yes’ and had already given up on convincing the other person not to head back into battle.

[fletchermundungus]

spellnbone·:

Edgar rolled up the poster he found and was about to bind it magically, when Fletcher’s … giggle? had him perk up. In all honesty, he had expected that this was the end of his and Fletcher’s acquaintance, that whatever this one fever dream of a night had been would never, ever reproduce, not the talking in a pub, not the shopping shenanigans, not the sex. That after Edgar’s words, Fletcher would just make a leave and never return. Edgar wouldn’t have been surprised, nor was he sure if he would’ve minded. But instead, Fletcher was laughing and talking to him. Reminiscing. Chatting. And Edgar blinked. 

Then smirked. “Had the knife developed a sense of self and urgent need for freedom or do you think there was a magical cat involved?” Carefully he turned back around, still a little startled by the sound of the laugh, by Fletcher’s determination to stay here, and of course … by just how excited he found himself to be at the idea of Fletcher telling him theatre stories. “One knife and the prop master went insane? And I always thought they were the only ones with long-lasting nerves.” He binded the poster and then, after a breath of hesitation, tried: “Ever heard of the Betty Burnett incident? She was cursed to magically attracted all sorts of metals. Wherever she went, stage-lights would fling themselves down to her, corsets would tighten too eagerly, and the doorhandles kept snapping to stay in her hand. And that was a problem because the play was a tragedy, so there were a lot of sword fights involved. So the prop master decided to change all metal swords into wooden swords, only that this made for a terribly unrealistic sound, right? So the theatre hired three green-ears to just sit by the side of the stage and knock metal chunks together whenever the swords were supposed to meet.” He took down another poster and rolled it as well, stuffing both of them under his arm as he moved to yet another poster. “Alas, no one could foresee that three nights in, the beautiful Betty Burnett died anyway.” He looked over his shoulder, his expression on the brink between solemnly grave and terribly amused. “Swallowed a spoon, you understand.” He binded the third poster. “Everyone went insane during the three weeks the play existed, only the prop master. He kept his cool, and whenever people asked him why or how, he just said: that’s just how it is, working with props.” 

The smirk still curling his lips, he conjured a broad but shallow box – one of the few spells he wasn’t all too terrible at –, placed it into the middle of the room and put the rolled up posters inside. “For you take. No need for-…” He waved it off with a tiny motion of the hand, casting Fletcher’s pocket only the slightest of glances. Then he almost chuckled about Big Willey Burbage and the unruly knife. “I wish I could’ve seen that face.” 

“Ah, me galleons are all on the knife,” Mundungus said, with a sure nod of his head. But there was a little mischief in the lines around his eyes, as he said, “well, understand the poor sod, he was running after a knife with a mind of its own while also trying to catch a kneazle that didn’t exist, dealing with actors who had no care for their props and half the time using them for things that they should’ve not be used for.. and by the end of it thinking everyone was in on it as joke on him. Ya would have gone a bit bonkers, too.”

He took another poster, this one also got a little giggle out of him, but he had no chance to explain why as he listened instead to Betty Burnett’s incident. “Oh that actually explains why the ban on spoons,” though he was careful not to mention which theatre had decided to implement such a ban. “Deadly objects. And I wouldn’t put me money on a spork,” he said, shaking his head. He still did not quite understood sporks himself, but it was nice to have someone that knew theatre stories that Mundungus hadn’t heard three times over already. “So, we agree: the prop master did it, innit? He was finally at peace and that’s why he kept his cool.” 

Poster rolled up, he was looking around for a place to leave it when Edgar conjured the box. Mundungus eyed the box then Edgar, back and forth a couple of times before settling on the man. “Pfft,” he snorted, “ya take the fun out of everything.” The poster he had rolled ended up in there, but not the one he had already pocketed. “Ya can. Ya just have to pay a few galleons for a good bootleg of that night. It’s kinda of a rare item, so it might get pricey. But never as pricey as when Kemp managed his animagi transfiguration on stage for the first time. That one is rarer than a pair of Morgana’s shoes. Which is funny if ya think about how easy it is to find ‘Kemp shagging another co-star backstage during the play’.”

[fletchermundungus]

the luncheon

arabellafiggaf·:

Arabella had had her eye on the Pecksniff’s luncheon for a while. Mostly she’d been wondering whether it would even be worth wasting a Polyjuice – though Severus had brewed a fresh batch, she still didn’t like being too free with it – but then the attack had happened and that had been one question answered, at least. Because nothing spurred people into talking quite like terrible, grand incidents like this one.

Not to Arabella, of course. But around people like themselves, most wix tended to let their tongues loosen, sometimes with the help of some alcohol, otherwise out of pure carelessness. It didn’t matter much, either way, as long as they talked.

And talk they did. Arabella hardly needed to do more than listen and hum every once in a while, in agreement, of course, because what would Ophelia even be doing here if she disagreed? She was young, wide-eyed, probably not even as wealthy as the poorest wix at the luncheon; all she had was her name – and naturally, it was all Arabella had too. The respectable Hopkins name, of which Ophelia was the only heir. She couldn’t sully it by disagreeing with her smarter, richer, better peers, god forbid.

It was perhaps this that stopped her from reacting too much to Mundungus Fletcher’s presence, though she did take some childish pleasure in the way he choked on his sandwich. Nevermind that she very much shared the sentiment. “Me? We haven’t met, have we?” Oh, how she wished! Still, she reached out for a glass of something translucent and sparkling and handed it to him. “You should be more careful.”

That was plenty of attention for Mundungus Fletcher, though, at least for the moment. She wouldn’t be quite so lucky as to rid herself of his presence so soon, she was sure. Still, she turned to the man next to him and while smiles had always felt a little awkward on her own face, on the face of Ophelia they were lovely in an open, almost innocent way. “And I don’t believe we’ve met either, forgive me. Ophelia Hopkins, honoured to make your acquaintance.” And if that was rude, to ignore Mundungus like that, then he’d been rude first to react like he had; she’d already learnt how these things worked. It was a careful line to toe, though, and so once the man had taken and returned her hand, she also extended it to Mundungus. “Ophelia Hopkins. A pleasure.”

Mundungus reluctantly took the offered glass of sparkles, taking a generous drink to  any remnant of choking-sandwich down with his desire to shoo Arabella away from the whole event, not just from his presence.

While he was this way occupied, his companion rose to the occasion. Furnifold Nadgett was a distinguished middle aged wix, who while being a pureblood snob was far from an active supporter of the Death Eaters. Though, that was mostly because he hated the mere idea of doing any kind of strenuous physical activity that would cause him to sweat in his very fine clothes.  “Likewise, dear miss Hopkins,” Furnifold said, affably, offering her a polite but very small bow, “Furnifold Nadgett, at your service.”

“Ph—Theophylaktos Dedlock,” Mundungus introduced himself, stumbling on the name at first. “Yes, a pleasure,” the kind of feels upon going to the dentist on receiving no anaesthetic while they work on you, “which I have not had before.” And he was hardly having now, as Arabella’s presence, especially when in the guise of Ophelia, was something he would’ve happily done without. “It’s just, for a moment, in the afternoon light, I confused you with someone else. An unfortunate acquaintance who would have no place being here,” he remarked, trying to communicate with a weird wiggling of his eyebrows that he was talking exactly about Arabella. “And she would really be better to leave and go home to her... whatever she does in her spare time that isn’t getting her nose where it doesn’t belong to.”

Furnifold frowned a little upon hearing Mundungus, or better, Phil, talking that way. “My, my,” he gently said and took one elegant step away from him while with his gaze started to look around. “Well, Miss Hopkins, have you just arrived to the luncheon?” Furnifold asked, as if ready to bring the conversation on  what, for him, was more easy terrain.