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date  &  time:  may  5th  1979,  evening. location:  the  ministry  of  magic.

      he  trespasses  on  holy  ground,  but  there  is  stealth  within  a  battalion  of  pristinely  tailored  suits.  BAGNOLD’S  elocutions  result  in  a  lip  that  draws  rearward  --  taut  like  a  bowstring  --  and  razor-bared canines.  werewolves  and  vampires  are  but  two  adversaries  she’s  struck,  and  both  bite.  though  he’s  been  known  to  bark,  a  global  radius  of  wanted  posters  prove  his  malevolent  capabilities.  there  is  a  furor  of  dissent  that  security  proceeds  to  quell,  yet  tongues  permeated  by  wine  lacerate  over  crystalline-rimmed  glasses.  a  leathered  flask  is  slipped  from  an  inner  pocket,  its  cap  revolved  twice,  then  raised  to  pursed  lips.  ❛  she’s  going  to  find  a  lot  more  than  just  her  name  scratched  off  the  ballot.  ❜  

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ROUGH: scars.

HIDE: fugitive.

FOOLISH: pup.

SAD: disposition.

HATE: ministry.

LIGHT: moon.

DARK: beast.

MOTHER: terminate.

FATHER: despondent.

CHILD: contorted.

MARRIAGE: fragment.

LOVE: incapable.

SOFT: veela.

PET: degrading.

DREAM: human.

DIVORCE: execution.

WATER: iron.

LOUD: howl.

ANNOUNCEMENT: control.

POWER: alpha.

FIGHT: massacre.

SMACK: discipline.

WHITE: fangs.

SICK: heart.

KISS: bite.

HUB: pack.

HURT: blood.

HAPPY: void.

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* ▲ — THÉODOR DELACOUR .

The woman wilts like a lifeless violet as the chambers of her mind are flooded with obfuscating magic —- her blue eyes dim, her mouth falls agape, and her breathing slows to a dangerous pace. The nuances of her memory are gently coaxed into the dim corridors of her mind and the heavy velvet curtain of forgetful bliss is drawn back. The mind-addled woman disappears ( oblivious and smiling ) back into the pub. His work is done. A vine wood wand retreats into the cover of its master’s cloak, and the double-agent turns his attention away. 

Tucked neatly into the alley behind The Leaky Cauldron is the figure of the man who initiated the attack: a brazen and foolish accosting of a muggle-born wizard just outside The Leaky Cauldron. Despite his impetuous actions, he has the gaul to glare at Théo for interfering —- his skin has the pallor of a sick moon from loss of blood and his eyes are sunken and hateful. It’s obvious that the vicious spell the woman used against him has left him lingering at death’s moribund door —- Théo knows how to reverse the damage, but he doesn’t lift his wand to help. Should the foul bastard bleed out in the alley, there would be one less shadow in the Dark Lord’s growing phalanx of foot soldiers. 

“You’re hasty,” Théo imparts softly, his voice even with feigned indifference. “Picking fights with muggles outside the Leaky Cauldron won’t get you the recognition you so desperately desire from the Dark Lord.”

“You know nothing of the Dark Lord’s desires, half-blood —-” The insult is cut short by a guttural explosion of coughs. Specks of blood slick the cobblestone.

“Insult me again and I’ll finish the witch’s work.” 

Théo prepares to apparate with the wounded and disagreeable figure, but the hollow knock of footfalls echoes and stops him in his tracks.

     tormented  vision  peers  at  the  wolf,  and  they  recoil  in  his  hostile  gait.  his  charred  soul  belongs  to  the  embrace  of  AZKABAN;  where  the  thunderous  sea  blunders  the  hulls  of  fearsome  vessels,  devours  them  like  an  egregious  kraken  --  leviathan  of  the  black  salt  abyss.  he  nearly  collides  with  a  woman’s  stuporous  stride.  inhuman  reflexes  evade  her  dazed  exterior,  but  those  of  the  wizarding  world  can  decipher  her  lackluster  aura.  THE  LEAKY  CAULDRON  and  its  expectant  conclave  are  exchanged  for  stalking  shadows.

     a  corner  is  rounded,  leather  trench  coat  accompanying  the  motion  with  reactant  sway.  he  observes  the  spray  of  pink  mist  abscond  the  wounded’s  sputtering  mouth.  gaze  departs  from  the  veela  at  his  left.  the  predator’s  shoulder  melds  with  grotesquely  stained  brick  as  his  maw  parts  to  instigate  rhetoric.  ❛  got  yourself  into  trouble,  fletwick  ?  ❜  lips  draw  back  over  grinning  canines.  the  sight  amuses  him  --  it  isn’t  the  first  time  he’s  stumbled  upon  the  impulsive  culprit.

     dual  moons  have  transcended  since  he  last  scrutinized  the  ashen-haired  male  at  BORGIN  AND  BURKES.  newcomers  often  defined  spies,  often  put  a  crater  in  his  own  pack’s  scrupulous  itinerary.  and  credence  of  the  fellow  half-blood’s  presence  has  yet  to  be  sanctioned.  ❛  let  him  bleed,  delacour.  ❜  the  alpha’s  slate  gaze  narrows  in.  ❛  he’s  worth  nothing  to  all  sides  of  this  war.  ❜

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In my defence, the moon was full and I was left unsupervised.

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* ▲ — DORCAS MEADOWES .

date…               16 / 04 / 79, 21:00PM ( MONDAY ) location…          knockturn alley person…            fenrir greyback, @grevbacks

               smoke  plumes  from  the  lungs  of  a  distorted  shadow  leaning  against  the  uneven   rain  glistened  bricks.  the  pitter  patter  of  rain  doesn’t  bother  her,  eyes  closed  as  the  breathes  in,  the  petrichor  filling  her  lungs  as  the  smoke  vacates  (  twisting  in  the  air,  before  dissolving  with  the  touch  of  a  raindrop.  )  she  flicks  the  cigarette  over  her  shoulder,  spotting  figures  approaching  from  the  left  with  an  eagle  eye  as  she  clicks  her  tongue  against  her  teeth,  before  resting  it  flat  as  she  regards  each  person  that  passes  her  by:  her  wand  peeking  out  of  her  sleeve  while  she  inclines  her  head,  a  show  of respect  (  because  she  knows  she  is  just  as  bad  as  them,  and  she  knows  their  faces:  she  knows  the  whispers  from  behind  their  backs,  the  ones  that  obliterate  any  respect  left,  obliterating  what  they  deserve.  )  sinking  backwards  into  her  shadow,  she  slowly  digs  her  cigarette  into  the  wall  behind  her,  sparks  falling  onto  her  fingers  and  down  to  the  floor,  igniting  in  puddles  before  going  out.  dying  embers  are  all  she  sees.

                her  boots  press  to  the  corner  of  the  stones  as  she  recognises  the  imposing  figure  she  spots  coming  from  her  right.  if  she  were  anything  but  a  cynic,  she’d  probably  be  fearing  for  her  life:  fenrir  greyback  was  a  known  affiliate  of  the  dark  lord,  but  she  knew  better  than  to  believe  he  believed  in  the  absolute  of  pureblood  purity.  the  still  bruised  and  bandaged  warrior  lets  her  lips  twitch  upwards  into  an  almost  disturbing  smile,  ❛  fancy  seeing  you  ‘round  these  parts.  ❜  there’s  an  unhampered  respect  in  each  of  her  words.  her  knuckles  rub  against  the  hard  leather  of  her  jacket  as  she watches the  dried  blood  fall  to  the  floor,  before  she  meets  his  eyes.  

     as  the  lupine  traverses  the  threshold  of  diagon  to  knockturn  alley,  parchment  depicting  beastly  attributes  recedes  alongside  twilight.  in  emblazoned  publication:  W A N T E D  by  the  MINISTRY  OF  MAGIC  :  FENRIR  GREYBACK.  savage  werewolf.  convicted  murderer.  suspected  death  eater.  * APPROACH  WITH  EXTREME  CAUTION  !  *.  canines  blaze  before  weathered  placards  --  quite  the  leviathan  they’ve  forged  of  him.  they  expect  his  wolven  reign  to  be  of  ephemeral  fabrication,  but  he  is  ALPHA  ;  they’re  OMEGA.  he  has  grown  weary  of  their  oppression.  he  has  grown  weary  of  mangled  bones  beneath  marring  moons  that  twist,  shatter,  and  reconstruct.  an  index  sheers  sepia  fibers  from  fragmented  brick.  plastered,  charmed  anatomy  cascades,  is  conquered  by  a  murky  pool.  the  sole  of  his  boot  compresses,  obliterates  fatalistic  identity.

     tendrils  of  clouded  nicotine  engulf  the  werewolf’s  augmented  senses.  embered  sparks  seize  his  sapphiric  peripheral,  and  ash  descends  like  snow.  she  is  the  only  one  who  dares  address  him,  who  dares  to  fathom  his  resolve.  ❛  meadowes.  ❜  he  hails,  bulgarian  timbre  un-afflicted  by  severed  allegiances.  a  suppressed  grin  emerges  --  the  barest  twitch  from  mouth  corner.  this  is  a  witch  he  ceases  to  loathe.  an  arm  extends  at  his  approach,  palm  upward,  the  gesture  hushed  in  its  request  for  the  woman’s  hand.  the  scent  of  iron  from  bludgeoned  knuckles  is  sharp  and  potent.  ❛  what  war  have  you  won  today  ?  ❜

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tag drop !

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BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH THE SECOND CHARACTER~ hello ! i’m admin petra ( *jack sparrow vc* BUT YOU HAVE HEARD OF ME ), twenty-one, operate in the cst timezone and go by she/her pronouns. i, like the rest of you, am an absolute HP H O E. a fun note: you can find me supporting maximum angst and problematic scenarios with deplorable outcomes ! i hope to plot and speak with you all soon; my IMs are always open ( as well as discord if desired ) !

* △ — the dark lord has targeted [ FENRIR GREYBACK ] ! the muggles say he holds resemblance to [ SEBASTIAN STAN ]. the [ THIRTY-FIVE ] year old [ CIS MALE ] was [ INDOMITABLE & TACTICAL ] before the war, but now have become [ BARBARIC & INSURGENT ]. though they were once a part of [ DURMSTRANG ], they now have taken up the position of the [ LEADER OF THE WEREWOLF ARMY ]. whispers throughout the ministry claim that the [ HALFBLOOD ] is actually [ A DEATH EATER ], but i wouldn’t report that to the daily prophet.

* law and order noise *

full moons, bloody hands, lone wolves, the colosseum, pompeii buried under meters of ash and pumice, the catastrophic event of mount vesuvius, a confessional aflame, gunmetal, winter’s barren tundra, vermillion stained canines, blinding fog, the howl before the scream, scarred flesh, black fur, a decaying forest, melting glaciers, a scratched leather trench coat, whiskey, black coffee, shadows.

fenrir lycaon greyback.

6′1 & demisexual & bulgarian.

for quite some time, he was the top of his class at durmstrang, and was expected to go quite the ways in the wizarding world. he also had an immense passion for the wizarding world’s creatures.

at thirteen, fenrir witnessed a werewolf attack his ten-year-old sister. though he defended her, he ended up bit in the process, and also witnessed his sister’s death.

at the next full moon, he wiped out the remainder of his family due to the curse.

for a long time, he despised what he was. the wizarding world made sure to place werewolves at the bottom of the totem pole, and eventually he decided he’d no longer allow his species to be placed low.

you can often find him skulking around knockturn alley with a few of his highest ranking wolves, including in pub where only werewolves may enter.

he does not fully support the dark lord -- nor does he hold the dark mark or support the purist movement -- but is a very valuable ally in which the dark lord requires. in exchange for fenrir’s aid, the dark lord considers him a death eater for the sheer purpose of keeping him in his inner circle.

fenrir hopes to achieve werewolf equality through the war, and has chosen darker means to obtain it. throughout his life, he’s been driven by vengeance.

he often attacks those who speak wrongly of his species ( consider why he attacked remus, due to his father saying that all werewolves deserved death, were vermin, etc ).

however, fenrir has also changed people of their own request as well as providing them an alternate route if death is approaching. of course, they must be a part of his army if they choose to accept. he’s been known to destroy anyone who dares defect.

the alpha of his pack, fenrir actually holds immense respect among the wizarding world’s werewolves. if you manage to befriend him, he’s quite the ally to have by your side.

HONESTLY THERE’S S O M U C H HMU ILY XOXO ADMIN PETRA

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                                           I  AM  BEAST.

                                            I  AM  CLAW                                        AND  I  AM  FANG.

                                         WHEN  I  SNARL                                    THEY  RUN  AND  HIDE.

                                         WHEN  I  HOWL                                    THEY  CRY  MY  NAME.

                                  “ BEAST ! ”

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Sebastian Stan  HUGO BOSS. Collection SS18