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[ignorekarkaroff]

4,5,7,11,12, 13 (emma)

What kind of drunk my muse is.

(I have a drunk starter in the drafts, amazing) Like any person of Eastern European descent with high drinking culture, Igorok claims his tolerance is high. That is debatable and nevertheless, he barely drinks the same variety each time he gets drunk. Overall, Igor lets go a lot. Ironically, his humour dissipates slightly.      

How my muse would react to being punched.

Assuming this is the variety that intends to hurt, Igor would be stunned by the physical violence. He’s so used to the subtle, complicated ways that magic can offer to harm someone. But, what he avoids at all costs is harm to himself. If he ever got punched, it would’ve been an oversight on his part. He would never apologise, scowl at the person instead. He’d probably punch back, but depending on the situation, would prefer not getting his hands so dirty.

How my muse relieved stress.

Stress can be what motivates Igor to do things. He’ll rationalise why he’s feeling that way, and realise it’s because he wants to complete something correctly and as best as he can. It’s great for getting things done. What isn’t so great is when it’s stress Igor can’t control. It clouds his judgement and makes him far more emotional than he wants. Walking is his best method, but he finds it so tedious to do so, so he’ll just find a quiet place.  

How my muse reacts to hate.

Something that Igor is surprisingly good at is brushing aside things at will. Any negativity directed at him that he doesn’t care about would be shunned for more important thoughts. But, if it deeply personal or concerning his skill set, he starts doubting himself. That’s not the greatest idea as he gets distracted, completely unable to do at all what he was doing supposedly subpar. The reaction isn’t outwardly, especially as an introvert, it just crumbles inside.  

If my muse has any guilty pleasures.

Sweet things. When he was a child and served by staff, there was an elf who made wonderful sbiten, a Russian drink with cinnamon, honey and spices. It was almost ritual for child Igor to return playing with nearby Wizarding children in the cold Russian day and return home to a warm, steaming drink of sbiten. He’ll down the drink when he feels especially he’s feeling existential or directionless. It doesn’t help logically, but the nostalgia comforts him. Nostalgia usually doesn’t do that for him, but the liquid doesn’t help his yellow teeth by staining it further

What my muse thinks of Emma

Back home, he was not an elite aristocrat but his family was still prominent. Igor has never been the greatest fan of jock types, but does have this uncomfortable envy of them. His athletic ability is in lean muscle and dexterity. The Quidditch that valued brutal tactics and a humongous stature back home did not value him. In terms of social status, Igor thinks him and Emma are similar: not well known, still worth something, vying for something greater. But, he’s not quite on board with whatever Emma has (perhaps not yet). 

[ignorekarkaroff]

There was always cause for suspicion when someone offered something supposedly so great so quickly. As a Russian aristocrat, no one knew treachery and exploitation as well as the culture Igor grew up in. It was too bad that he was not desperate for a companion, partner, spouse — whatever they wished to label it these days. He knew, from experience and observation, that these were simply business deals at their best with attraction bestowed only upon those most fortunate. Perhaps the blonde had decent intentions in mind for Igor, but he perfectly knew that anyone willing to associate themselves with the Dark Lord was pure in bloodline, but certainly not pure of heart. Her voice had an edge to it, and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Regardless, he knew that any search would be fruitless. “Ah,” he let out softly, allowing himself to bathe in (what he thought of as) recognition. “I do appreciate the offer, Vanity. I can guarantee that sticking with the current activity is what I shall do.” Because, at this moment in time, it was. Doubting his loyalty was impossible with the Mark burned onto his skin. So far, Igor had made the right choice, the logical choice, by following the Death Eaters. He wanted to comment on the ladies, as to how fine they truly were if they had not not found their own gentleman. For once however, he kept his mouth shut. He figured the ‘forgetting about one’s betrothed’ made her uncomfortable. Of course, he wouldn’t do anything to amend it but the impression was noted. “Bas—if I may refer to him as that—and you? How’s that going, is an official union on the horizon? We should cherish such things in a war.” 

“Oh do not mistake my curiously for judgement; I wasn’t judging you at all, just merely curious,” Emma said, the lie slipping as easily from her lips as if she was telling the truth. Of course she was judging him — Emma judged everybody. She observed them, listened to what they said and how the acted and made mental notes of any information she deemed useful. Perhaps one day the knowledge that Igor had troubles finding a partner would be useful, although for now it simply served as a source of amusement. Mean as it may be to judge him for this, Emma didn’t much care. She was always looking for flaws in people; flaws she did not have, so then she could add them to her ever growing list of why she was so superior. In Emma’s mind, there was a hierarchy even within the most elite of the purebloods, and she wanted to be at the top. She herself had always had Rabastan as a default partner for these sorts of events, but even without the engagement she knew she wouldn’t have had much difficulty. She wondered if anyone else had commented on single status; the pureblood community was well known for its judgemental tendencies towards anyone didn’t fit the traditional mould — that was something Emma had first hand experience with as she chose to pursue not just a career post Hogwarts instead of settling down and getting married and furthering the family line, but Quidditch. Her parents had made their disproval of her choices clear but she’d long since stopped caring what they thought. “If you ever decide that your ‘comrades’,” Emma’s lips curled at the word; enunciating it slowly with a minor hint of condescension, “are no longer enough for you, I’d be happy to help. I know several lovely ladies who’d be delighted to attend with a handsome and prominent Wizard such as yourself.” Selfless acts of kindness were hardly common of Emma Vanity, she never did anything without some sort of ulterior motive. In this case, her diplomacy came from recognising Karkaroff as someone who was a somebody, or had the potential to be. It never hurt to network and build up a group of people who Emma could call upon for favours if she ever needed them, not to mention the elevation of her status if these people ever rose to some highly influential position of power. Her offer may have been simple, but if he accepted it left him in her debt. His debt to her would only be minor, for it was only a small favour, however a debt was a debt and in her debt was exactly where Emma liked people.

[ignorekarkaroff]

Send me a number for a headcanon!

1:What my muse is like when they're happy.

2:What my muse is like when they're angry.

3:What my muse is like when they're sad.

4:What kind of drunk my muse is.

5:How my muse would react to being punched.

6:How my muse would act if they're in love.

7:How my muse relieved stress.

8:If my muse would be a Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw.

9:What my muse does when they're alone.

10:What my muse does when they're jealous.

11:How my muse reacts to hate.

12:If my muse has any guilty pleasures.

13:What my muse thinks of (another character).

14:My muse's favorite song and why.

15:If my muse has any tattoos and what they mean.

16:If my muse has any scars and what they mean.

17:My muse's idea of a perfect date.

18:My muse's most memorable past love.

19:My muse's favorite childhood memory.

20:My muse's top three visited websites.

[ignorekarkaroff]

For someone as observant as Igor, his judgement had blinded him as to how to handle Vanity. Sure, her being a Quidditch player and the aggression required was taken into account, yet he never really noticed how deliberate the woman was. To him, she was just raging about a sport he could not care less about. He restrained himself too, knowing how famous and influential such athletes were (although as an academic elitist of sorts, he’d hate to admit that a discipline required brawn as well as brain). Nevertheless, Igor tried to grasp onto any particle of condescending air he had left. Tilting his head slowly and winking after she retorted, Igor’s playful smile was not the most friendliest, still sinister-looking despite its nature. Even though her mild admittance barely meant anything, Igor sucked it up incredibly. So enamoured was he with himself, that his head started getting woozy. Regardless, he still managed to comprehend what she was saying as he figuratively bought himself back to the earth. “Alone?” He scoffed, not even correcting her formal addressing of him. “With the company of my comrades, I could never.” He shook his head before uncurling his previously raised fist off from the wall. He paused, wanting to choose words that didn’t reflect his inner dread, finding someone he couldn’t feel great attraction towards. “If you must ask, arrangements for such things have not been the most successful overall. But, I think my lack of formality is fine. After a few pints, does everyone not forget their betrothed and promised?”   

“Admireable?” Emma scoffed, shaking her head. Emma didn’t like chaos – she liked order structure because it could be controlled. Of course, that didn’t make Emma a stickler for rules – on the contrary, she’d broken many a rule back in her Hogwarts days and even now she didn’t exactly follow every expectation set out for her, only the ones she agreed with. In regards to Quidditch, especially in Hogwarts, she’d had no qualms about using slightly more underhand methods if that meant she would win, provided she was certain her team could get away with them. So no, Emma Vanity was not the most law abiding citizen there was, but she certainly wasn’t a supporter of complete chaos either. “See, I might be more willing to consider your point of view if it were actually true. Have you ever tried playing quidditch against a Russian team, Mr. Karkaroff? I can assure you, in my experience, they don’t tend to adapt very well – which is understanable, why would you be willing to change from a system of far more freedom to one with so many rules and regulations?” Getting Emma on the subject of Quidditch was never a smart idea, simply because it was one of her favourite topics to talk about. If given the chance, she would about it forever. Still, Emma managed to restrain herself from delving into her opionions on the matter too much, and instead moved to consider his second point. “You make a fair point there, I suppose,” she acknolwedged, faint amusement curling up the edges of her lips. Briefly Emma noted she didn’t see a partner of any sort with Igor, and curisoity got the better of her once again. “Where is your date, Mr Karkaroff? Or did you come alone?”

[ignorekarkaroff]

Lips still pursed, as they were when he expressed disappointment at the rat’s departure to safety; it was his way to controlling himself in light of his lack of foresight with his previous statement. He had foreseen how she would possibly react and considered it but quite frankly, harming others brought Igor control. With control? — bought power. Even in such micro situations such as this, he loved switching the dynamics like this, hitting on the nerves of those who weren’t used to such occurrences. Hitting where it hurt most was not a great conversation starter, and Igor was ready to admit those weren’t his strength, but as a Death Eater, he assumed a bit more gung-ho in accepting remarks of scathing nature. Her lack of amusement brought the opposite to himself. “Miss Vanity, you have described Russia in a nutshell. The chaos is admirable, allows one to adapt,” he retorted, even though he hated the way it was back home. “But evidently,” he added, as he curled his hand into a fist and banged it gently on a wall. “Unless you’re talking of the wizarding race itself, bigger can be better and structured, like this ‘humble’ abode, no?” 

Emma couldn’t help but feel relieved when he stopped toying with the rat. If push came to shove, Emma wouldn’t hesitate to do what was necessary to save herself or someone she cared about — whatever that may be, torture or directly killing someone or anything — but until then Emma preferred to keep her hands clean. Not that they were clean — when it came down to it, all the times she’d teamed up with Mal or somehow used her status to aid the Death Eaters usually resulted in the harm or death of someone. Her hands were hardly clean, even if she wasn’t the one to utter the curse. But out of sight, out of mind, right? His voice snapped her out of this line of thinking, grabbing her attention fully by having the nerve to make a dig at her Quidditch League. When it came to Quidditch, Emma didn’t take insults towards it lightly and she had no problems expressing that. “‘Little tournament’?” Emma repeated incredulously, clearly not amused by his words at all. “At least our league — and yes it is a league, excuse you — is structured and makes sense. The one you have in Russia is just a mess because it’s too big. Bigger isn’t always better, Mr. Karkaroff.”

[ignorekarkaroff]

Giving an amicable smile and a head shake more banter-like than disapproval, Igor knew he wasn’t that old yet he still thought himself as superior the boy. Yes, boy even if his status was above.  “For me, there are bigger battles to fight than my name. And names are elastic, flexible. It is a far bigger crime on their part not mine if one can’t handle the formality that is names.” A pause. “Should the shame of not being able to pronounce Ra...your name rest on the fault of the pronouncer as opposed to yourself?” 

“I’m not being smug, Karkaroff,” Rabastan argued, spinning around to come face to face with the elder man. “It’s irritating when people can’t seem to get my name right. Does it not bother you when people don’t get your name right?”

[ignorekarkaroff]

[ignorekarkaroff]

Igor was a stark contrast to his usual appearance: hair combed back and his best robes on. “What do you think, Halvy?” He opened his arms out, making louder steps into the office. His mock Received Pronunciation was slipping. “If I pretend I’m from here, wear boring clothes, it seems that I can convince anyone that I work here. Of course, a little Imperius here and there couldn’t harm no one.” Igor glanced at the corridor he’d come from, before draping the hat he was wearing on a spare seat. “Should you keep quiet, no one should notice those idiots looking a little...dim.” His voice trailed off as he noticed the expression of the man when he came in. 

“I do need help, considering your position.” 

Visitors to his office were an unfortunate symptom of working at the Ministry. Apparently a lock on his door was considered ‘inappropriate for the workplace’, as people actually were required to come and go. That isn’t to say that Halvard hadn’t tried, but after the head of the Committee had come down herself to tell him that it simply wasn’t allowed, Rowle’s door had been permanently charmed open. So when he felt a shadow cross his doorway, it was only then that he glanced up from the papers he had been going over, looking uncomfortable at the presence of someone other than himself. 

“May I help you?”

[ignorekarkaroff]

The man loosened his wand's grip, losing focus at her reply. In turn, the rat dropped and scurried away. Only when the pattering of its feet halted did Igor look up. After a few drinks, his mind did admittedly falter, only slightly as he still had the capacity to wield a curse. Then again, these spells had become a reflex through their repeated use over the years. Parties were not his forte, and vodka fuelled festivities had proved so in his youth but with his quiet nature and unconventional topics not suiting most—nor their plucks. Regardless, pureblood engagements of his adulthood weren't too bad. The families tended to serve wine such as Superior Red, refreshing since it was not a popular drink in his homeland. It was far less rowdy, the calmness he apprecaited. "No..?" he said, as he lifted his head up, only to see the Vanity girl. "Oh, of course not." Igor put his wand away and straightened his clothes. "Ah, I won't drone on any longer. It is probably not exciting as tales of the pitch I suppose. You play in the little tournament they dare call a league round here, no?" 

While Quidditch was one of the things that occupied the majority of her time, attending social functions was another. This event was more casual — just a simple dinner hosted by one of the more promient pureblood families, but she was enjoying it nevertheless. She was on her way to find of her friends when she heard someone speak. She recognised the man as Igor Karkaroff, one of the many Death Eaters in attendance tonight, though she couldn’t claim to know much about him beyond that. Watching what he did to the rat made Emma feel ill — she’d never had the stomach for that sort of torture, on animals or people. There was a reason she’d never taken the mark, after all. Emma was not part of the ‘inner circle’, and therefore couldn’t answer either of his first questions so she simply remained silent until he spoke again. “Amusing,” she said slowly, though without judgement. It didn’t do well to reveal this one particular weakness of hers in a room full of people who tortured for a living. It wasn’t that she dissaproved of their actions — she didn’t — she just simply preferred not to bare witness to them. “Shame I missed it, then.”

[ignorekarkaroff]

Igor was surprised to see a movement as gentle as a nudge from Bellatrix herself. His shoulders began to feel less tense, as perhaps she was loosening too. But, he was still cautious, recognising how rare this must've been for a woman of her potential. "You are lucky in that aspect, Bella," he replied, straightening his back and slowly turning to match her direction. "My own parents had initially arranged for me to settle with a girl whose family owned most Wizarding land around Lake Baikal. Her mother was half, however," he grimaced. "I have no idea where this unfounded blood tolerance came from, most shameful." Walking alongside, Bella, he took steps carefully, still unfamiliar with Britain's streets. Their smaller size made him feel suffocated at times, hence shaky in his navigation. But he daren't show it, for if Igor was extremely intimidated by the Dark Lord, he was by no means less of Bellatrix. As a man of old school thought, he was ashamed of so for her gender. Her beauty or any lack of it was no concern, but also a topic he did not wish to delve in considering sibling rivalry was uncharted territory for him as an only son. "I should leave most flattery to your husband...whom I am surprised you are not with at the moment." 

A short attempt at a chuckle got stuck in her throat while the tight smile stretched at her lips “Please, call me Bella.” she offered, not quite recognizing herself in the title of a lady, but she appreciated the chivalrous sentiment. It and he were like a gust of fresh air in this dull and of narrow spectrum world. Everyone was so predictable and the common had become uncommon, as beautiful as the jewels she’d now turned her back to so she could pay full attention to the man next to her. It would’ve probably do them best if they moved from the store’s window too, so they do not attract too much attention. So Bella took it on herself to gently skim her fingers over the surface of Igor’s outer wrist and nudge him into steps forwards and away “If that is the truth, I cannot tell whether you find me beautiful or ugly. Fortunately, I am not vain.” When younger, she used to take pleasure in her reflection but lately it’s been invoking nothing but indifference in her. “Quite the opposite, Igor - I believe my marriage has brought me in my prime. If I didn’t know my parents, I would say I’m their favorite daughter for the man they chose to marry me to. Rodolphus is worthy of all my praise.”

[ignorekarkaroff]

[ignorekarkaroff]

Reclining in a seat not designed for such leaning, Igor had his wand up. It was pointed downwards, and he was twirling it, his wand motion was akin to doodling in the air than any magic handiwork. His head was in a similar position, relaxed and almost lolling around, but his eyes were locked, eyebrows furrowed and still. Their straightness exaggerating his gaze, if one could describe it as such. It would be difficult to believe with the intensity of his expression, that the subject of Igor's magic was a simple rodent. He was no expert in zoology but it did look rat-ish, and while he was disgusted at the presence of the creature in such a place, his first reaction was to rush the Imperius Curse incantation. And here he was, controlling the movements of a small animal. "When was the last time we had a raid?" He asked, elongating his vowels and allowing the question to have a lilt to it. "I'm at a point where I'm practicing my curses upon smaller creatures, not the larger ones we're targeting. Do you not think that says something about our activity?" He allowed the rat to flip in the air briefly, and sat up. "—Were you there when I did the thing..." Igor tried to remember, but couldn't. "...with the mudblood, it was some time ago, quite amusing."

[ignorekarkaroff]

Still bent over slightly from looking at the jewel, Igor turned his head towards her. His face remaining still and stoic, but softened by the conversation. The corner of lower lip tugged in thought. It curled up again in a smirk of sorts when Igor spoke again, momentarily flashing his less than desirable set of teeth. "You European bastards and your Latin," was all he grumbled before grunting slightly. "But lady Lestrange, my ideas of beauty have not served me well." He shook his head, standing up straighter and exhaling. Romanticism was not his strong point. "If I am to be honest? I find beauty in the ugliest of things. It is difficult to explain." Perking his head up, he pushed his lips, resisting a further smile. "Did Lestrange's jewel of betrothal or marriage not make you less...Black? In a sense, it has already been done," he added, taking his new robe away from being slung over his shoulder and hanging it on his forearm in front of him. 

In all her distraction, the woman had remained fairly high on scale of awareness, sharpened observational skills picking up at the hard consonants of the man to her right, even if he’d shaped them up and masked them ingeniously well in comparison to others of his origins that she’d spoken with. Lowering her fingers onto the front rims of her cloak, a single button leveled with her breast resting there, she brought her gaze up to inspect the man’s facial contours “Define beauty.” she opted for, unsure whether his words were meant to imply offense or the compliment, really. “Vulpes pilum mutat, non mores. Perhaps a jewel like this around my neck would make my eyes warmer to yours - and many men lie that the eyes of a woman is what lures them in. Unfortunately, no jewel could make my soul less black. Perhaps I cannot be transformed into a beauty for my temper is not such.” 

[ignorekarkaroff]

"There are Russian names more difficult than yours, even mine." Igor said, his voice accelerating and crescendoing. He prided himself on his well-spoken English. "Don't be so smug," he added, a bit gentler. "Does rolling of the R bother you? Rrr, rrr, rrr? "

“Ah, it amazes me that some of you still cannot pronounce my name right. Is saying Rabastan really that difficult?”

[ignorekarkaroff]

Igor had a soft spot for material possessions. As a child, he was one to scream more at his parents many many times. Once he grew older, his interest was redirected towards skills and knowledge as opposed to real treasures. He had grown to love the gleaming eyes of recent victims over jewels that shone brighter. But of course, the young man was still materialistic. Carrying a new robe over his shoulder, the rhythm of his walk was halted upon seeing Bellatrix. "I'm no lady, of course," he replied, leaning closer to examine it as well, taking precaution not to get too close to the window unlike his colleague. "But would it not be," he continued, trying not to trip up his phrasing. "Not be, what would transform a woman like you into a beauty?" 

In uttermost awe of the opal necklace seen through the window shop, the oldest of Black sisters had her calloused fingers lingering in the air, only inches away from the glass the gleaming icicles of her irises were glued to. Most would argue that this only proved how precious gems were truly woman’s best friends, but it was the thrum of dark power she could feel behind the displayed beauty that had the blood rushing tad faster through her veins. She’d always been somewhat of an Empath, really; channeling others rather than being in touch with herself. “Isn’t she a beauty?” 

[ignorekarkaroff]

Plenty of humans were monstrous, and plenty of monsters knew how to play at being human.

Victoria Schwab, Vicious (via quoted-books)

[ignorekarkaroff]