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Eustace followed the female, knowing it would be rude to stop the conversation. It was one of the lessons his mother had ensured her children knew. He took everything she taught them to heart. It was a shame that she wasn’t here right now. She would have made things easier. “I guess I’ll just have to get used to it,” he sighed softly, hoping that he would. He was already awkward enough without giving something for the press to gossip about.

“Right,” he nodded trying to grasp the reality of what his future held. All he wanted to do was play his favourite and he guessed there had to be compromises in order to do that. “As long as I’m playing, I think I’ll get used to it.” Eustace cleared his throat, realising how he sounded. There was no belief in his words and he wondered how well it would pan out in the next few months.

When she mentioned the posters and comparing him to a rock star, Eustace really did feel his face warm up. “A rock star for Quidditch? I suppose I’ll be like the posters I’ve owned in the past.” There was no point in mentioning that he had recent just began to store his old posters away. Eustace felt bad for the players in them who protested this change. He wanted to be an adult but still retain himself in there somehow. This was probably why he wasn’t keen on anyone knowing him personally.

Following her gaze, he spotted Jason Stonem arguing with an American and began to connect the dots. How could he have not recognise her straight away? “I see. You’re… he’s your father. I should have realised but … I was so wrapped up with my own problems. I… I am so sorry for being so… awkward?” Eustace had always had this trouble of fitting in and making friends, especially when he had been so committed to playing Quidditch. “I could always use some pointers on how to conduct myself around the press (or anyone) in the future, though. I don’t want to mess up this opportunity I’ve worked so hard for.”

The Stonem girl was humbled somewhat by his response, and she gave a small nod. It must be a shock, to have worked so hard at something to turn professional, only to come to the harsh realisation that being a phenomenal player wasn’t enough... that there were other expectations they also had to meet. Not that Isabelle would know, while she had a pristine school record and with her family’s connections could turn whatever she deemed worthwhile at that particular time into a career, she still didn’t have a clue what she was good at or indeed where she was going in life.

She couldn’t help but chuckle softly as Eustace mentioned him being awkward, and she returned her gaze to him, pulling her eyes away from her father who was now motioning something elaborate and ridiculous with his hands- a flight pattern she assumed- at the other younger man. “I think my Dad would probably tell you to just be yourself,” she suggested softly, not as equipped at dealing with quidditch stars as her father was, but knowing that was something he strongly believed in. “If all you truly care for is quidditch and playing then that’s all you should talk about, regardless of what...” Isabelle motioned with her free hand towards the tent entrance, “those gossip-vultures ask you.”

“Plus you’re going to be so busy now with training season coming that you probably won’t even have time to think about friends or personal relationships,” she laughed lightly, the bubbly feeling of champagne going to her head somewhat. @the-trevelyan-legacyhp

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Isabelle took a long sip from her glass while she weighed up the young man in front of her and then couldn’t help but laugh gently when he told her the reporter had been sniffing into his personal life. She sighed softly and turned to another seating area close by nodding her head to indicate he should accompany her. She took a seat and toyed with the champagne flute in her hands, nodding sadly.  “Unfortunately yes,” she stated, “there will always be reporters who want to know everything about your personal life because that is what their readers want to know.”

Isabelle knew not all of the reporters were like that. There were several ultra-professional ones who ignored Isabelle completely because she was not directly related to the sport.  “I mean, you’ll learn which reporters to avoid for sure,” she said encouragingly, “but I think you have to accept that you’re not ever going to have one hundred percent of your privacy to yourself now...” She took the opportunity while she was sat to look Eustace up and down and though she did well to hide any blatant admiration from her face, she had to admit to herself that he was incredibly handsome. “Your face is going to be in the paper, on quidditch cards, probably on posters plastered to bedrooms all over the world,” she teased with a shake of her head, “I mean, you’re basically a rock star.”

She glanced once over her shoulder to where her Dad was seemingly scolding the American player with a wag of his finger and she let out another chuckle. “That’s what keeps my Dad busy most of the time now,” she said, taking a sip from her flute, eyes still on her father “making sure that the most personal information of players stays out of the public eye, so they can focus on the matches.” “Some players are better at keeping out of the spotlight than others,” she deduced with a roll of her eyes as she turned back to Eustace.

Gossip and rumours. Eustace knew it would happen eventually but he seriously felt under prepared. No amount of advise from his sister would help combat his confusion or nerves. At least the Daily Prophet was more interested in the game and he was more than happy to talk. It was Quidditch and that was what he was living for right now. He really struck gold when the reporter approached him first. The man was a few years older but he was easy to get along with. Eustace found himself relaxing immediately despite the warmth of his cheeks.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” a woman’s voice entered his ears as he was done with the Daily Prophet reporter. Eustace turned to see a woman in her thirties and was struck by how long her face was. Her eyes was sparkling with something that made his stomach growl. She held up a press badge and a shiver ran his spine. Hadn’t he been briefed about Witch Weekly? They were a magazine aimed at teenaged girls (and some boys). He, admittedly, had read the gossip rag during his teens. Although, he would never admit that out loud. His eyes drifted more to the moving pictures than what was written and it made him blush to even remember his stupidity.

“Yes?” His voice came out as a whisper and the woman shot up a thick eyebrow making him clear his throat. “S… sorry. What would you like to know?”

“A few things actually,” she flashed him a wide smile and gestured to her quill. This woman meant business. “First of all, I would to congratulate you on making the team. How does it feel?” Eustace went onto how he was pleased and honoured to be chosen for the team as that was his dream. “I’m sure your family was proud when they heard the news.”

“Yes, they were with me when I got the news actually. They’ve been a comfort and inspiration during my years of training.” Eustace felt relived. These questions seemed normal at the moment.

“It must be hard that two key members of your family can’t be here with you. Your mother and older brother, Jacob, would be happy for you too, I am sure.” A lump formed in his throat but he said nothing in response. If he did that, he might do something destructive. “Is it true that your brother was the reason why your mother is no longer with us?”

“That’s got nothing -“

“I just want to be clear if he was a Death Eater or not but I can it’s stressing you out so we’ll move on.” Stressing him? That wasn’t how he was feeling and he didn’t know what to do. Eustace wished his sister was here as she would know what to do. “Is a lady in your life?” He shook his head, barely listening. “And what about a gentleman?”

“What is this?” He looked up to see her grinning face. Shaking his head, he turned away and went into the VIP tent. He could hear the guard telling the reporter to either leave or stop harassing the important guests.

Visibly shaking, Eustace strolled over to the buffet table and leaned against it. He then grabbed a flute of champagne and downed it, then placed it on the table for a refill. At least he had a week until official training began but that wasn’t the point. Eustace normally didn’t drink as a choice but now he needed to take his mind off things. He picked the glass back up and brought it to his lips.

Isabelle demolished the sandwich selection in barely a few bites, and- now knowing that there was no chance of a reporter getting anywhere nearby- she brushed the crumbs off her lap and onto the tented floor. Though she may have a reputation of a princess at school, Isabelle was quite different when she was alone. Her cold and harsh exterior which ensure she remained at the top of the social pyramid was altogether quite different when she was in an environment she felt comfortable for instance Stonem Manor, or at a Quidditch function.

While Isabelle had been the apple of everyone at the IQA’s eye when she was younger, with the trainers and players so eager to grab a photo opportunity with the tiny, blonde haired bubble that was Isabelle as a child, things were different since the incredibly cute toddler had turned into an incredibly beautiful young woman.  There were no photo opportunities now, save for the odd time when Isabelle was snapped leaving a night-club with one or more of the players, and her father was usually able to stop any images with Isabelle in going to print anyway. At gala’s and events, it was made clear that if anyone was with Isabelle that she was there as a FRIEND and nothing more.  Still, people were friendly enough to her, and she got to eat all the sandwiches she wanted. The various members of the IQA no longer swept Isabelle up onto their brooms to do a victory lap of the pitch after a match, but she did catch a few stealing longing looks in her direction, and her father always returned home year after year with a ton of Valentine’s cards addressed in her name.

A commotion at the VIP entrance caused Isabelle’s head to raise and tilt to the left in interest. Everyone was normally polite and dry at the press events, it had been a while since anyone had got into an argument or even anyone had raised their voice. The guard telling off the horsey reporter brought a small smile to Isabelle’s face. Her experiences with the Witch Weekly publication in the past had not been pleasant. Despite their best efforts to dig up any dirt on Isabelle, who had a pristine record as far as the public were concerned, they had still sent her an offer for an internship upon her graduation of school in a few short months. They’d received a strongly worded Howler from her mother in response. 

Her eyes were drawn to the source of the fuss- Eustace Trevelyan. Of course Isabelle knew who he was, the latest Chaser for Puddlemere United. The man was five years older than Isabelle, and she vaguely remembered him from school when she was an early first and second year. Watching him drink down the champagne like it was pumpkin juice and shake like a leave caused Isabelle to feel a shimmer of pity wash over her- something she was not familiar with. She glanced across the room to her father, who had noticed the scene, but was too occupied with the American to go and talk to Eustace and he gave a pointed nod to his daughter in his direction. Go and talk to him the look said, and Isabelle sighed softly, pulling her long blonde hair back from her shoulders and padding over to Eustace. 

“Hello,” Isabelle said softly so as not to startle him. She reached for a further champagne flute herself and gave a small, genuine smile, “these things are all a bit much right? Don’t worry, you’ll get used to them.” She put out her glass as a greeting to cheers to him, “Congratulations on making the team.”

@the-trevelyan-legacyhp

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C

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Gossip and rumours. Eustace knew it would happen eventually but he seriously felt under prepared. No amount of advise from his sister would help combat his confusion or nerves. At least the Daily Prophet was more interested in the game and he was more than happy to talk. It was Quidditch and that was what he was living for right now. He really struck gold when the reporter approached him first. The man was a few years older but he was easy to get along with. Eustace found himself relaxing immediately despite the warmth of his cheeks.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” a woman’s voice entered his ears as he was done with the Daily Prophet reporter. Eustace turned to see a woman in her thirties and was struck by how long her face was. Her eyes was sparkling with something that made his stomach growl. She held up a press badge and a shiver ran his spine. Hadn’t he been briefed about Witch Weekly? They were a magazine aimed at teenaged girls (and some boys). He, admittedly, had read the gossip rag during his teens. Although, he would never admit that out loud. His eyes drifted more to the moving pictures than what was written and it made him blush to even remember his stupidity.

“Yes?” His voice came out as a whisper and the woman shot up a thick eyebrow making him clear his throat. “S… sorry. What would you like to know?”

“A few things actually,” she flashed him a wide smile and gestured to her quill. This woman meant business. “First of all, I would to congratulate you on making the team. How does it feel?” Eustace went onto how he was pleased and honoured to be chosen for the team as that was his dream. “I’m sure your family was proud when they heard the news.”

“Yes, they were with me when I got the news actually. They’ve been a comfort and inspiration during my years of training.” Eustace felt relived. These questions seemed normal at the moment.

“It must be hard that two key members of your family can’t be here with you. Your mother and older brother, Jacob, would be happy for you too, I am sure.” A lump formed in his throat but he said nothing in response. If he did that, he might do something destructive. “Is it true that your brother was the reason why your mother is no longer with us?”

“That’s got nothing -“

“I just want to be clear if he was a Death Eater or not but I can it’s stressing you out so we’ll move on.” Stressing him? That wasn’t how he was feeling and he didn’t know what to do. Eustace wished his sister was here as she would know what to do. “Is a lady in your life?” He shook his head, barely listening. “And what about a gentleman?”

“What is this?” He looked up to see her grinning face. Shaking his head, he turned away and went into the VIP tent. He could hear the guard telling the reporter to either leave or stop harassing the important guests.

Visibly shaking, Eustace strolled over to the buffet table and leaned against it. He then grabbed a flute of champagne and downed it, then placed it on the table for a refill. At least he had a week until official training began but that wasn’t the point. Eustace normally didn’t drink as a choice but now he needed to take his mind off things. He picked the glass back up and brought it to his lips.

Isabelle demolished the sandwich selection in barely a few bites, and- now knowing that there was no chance of a reporter getting anywhere nearby- she brushed the crumbs off her lap and onto the tented floor. Though she may have a reputation of a princess at school, Isabelle was quite different when she was alone. Her cold and harsh exterior which ensure she remained at the top of the social pyramid was altogether quite different when she was in an environment she felt comfortable for instance Stonem Manor, or at a Quidditch function.

While Isabelle had been the apple of everyone at the IQA’s eye when she was younger, with the trainers and players so eager to grab a photo opportunity with the tiny, blonde haired bubble that was Isabelle as a child, things were different since the incredibly cute toddler had turned into an incredibly beautiful young woman.  There were no photo opportunities now, save for the odd time when Isabelle was snapped leaving a night-club with one or more of the players, and her father was usually able to stop any images with Isabelle in going to print anyway. At gala’s and events, it was made clear that if anyone was with Isabelle that she was there as a FRIEND and nothing more.  Still, people were friendly enough to her, and she got to eat all the sandwiches she wanted. The various members of the IQA no longer swept Isabelle up onto their brooms to do a victory lap of the pitch after a match, but she did catch a few stealing longing looks in her direction, and her father always returned home year after year with a ton of Valentine’s cards addressed in her name.

A commotion at the VIP entrance caused Isabelle’s head to raise and tilt to the left in interest. Everyone was normally polite and dry at the press events, it had been a while since anyone had got into an argument or even anyone had raised their voice. The guard telling off the horsey reporter brought a small smile to Isabelle’s face. Her experiences with the Witch Weekly publication in the past had not been pleasant. Despite their best efforts to dig up any dirt on Isabelle, who had a pristine record as far as the public were concerned, they had still sent her an offer for an internship upon her graduation of school in a few short months. They’d received a strongly worded Howler from her mother in response. 

Her eyes were drawn to the source of the fuss- Eustace Trevelyan. Of course Isabelle knew who he was, the latest Chaser for Puddlemere United. The man was five years older than Isabelle, and she vaguely remembered him from school when she was an early first and second year. Watching him drink down the champagne like it was pumpkin juice and shake like a leave caused Isabelle to feel a shimmer of pity wash over her- something she was not familiar with. She glanced across the room to her father, who had noticed the scene, but was too occupied with the American to go and talk to Eustace and he gave a pointed nod to his daughter in his direction. Go and talk to him the look said, and Isabelle sighed softly, pulling her long blonde hair back from her shoulders and padding over to Eustace. 

“Hello,” Isabelle said softly so as not to startle him. She reached for a further champagne flute herself and gave a small, genuine smile, “these things are all a bit much right? Don’t worry, you’ll get used to them.” She put out her glass as a greeting to cheers to him, “Congratulations on making the team.”

@the-trevelyan-legacyhp

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The buzz and bubble of reporters, coaches, players and super-fans had slowly turned to white-noise for Isabelle over the years. Sure, initially the glitz and glamour of the International Quidditch Association could be overwhelming, but as the daughter of Jason Stonem, Isabelle had been thrown into this environment before she could even walk.

Her father had been the youngest player to make the England quidditch squad in his time. He had been seventeen, a year younger than Isabelle was herself now. It was something she was frequently reminded of by him, and also sometimes by press from the Daily Prophet on a slow news day. Like today, for example, one might have thought that the horse-faced Witch Weekly reporter had better stories to chase than to hang around Isabelle.    “Never thought to follow in your father’s footsteps Isabelle?” the woman, who’s name wasn’t important enough for Isabelle to remember, laughed dryly, “or perhaps you are following more in your mother’s steps and are just here for the free champagne?” Isabelle’s grip tightened around the glass in her hand, and she gave a short ‘Ha,’ as her golden eyes scanned the conference room in front of her, not bothering to even look back at the woman.   “I’m sure your boss would rather you got a statement from one of the players, not from me,” Isabelle spoke daintily, before flashing the woman a curt and polite smile, “or does your access pass only allow you to try, miserably at that, to extract gossip from teenagers?” The Stonem girl didn’t wait for a reply before she took off towards a small corner of the conference hall, one which had been tented and reserved for players and others with a V.I.P pass, an area where the press were not allowed. She flashed her badge, and stepped through into the tent where there were plenty of lavish sofas to rest on, and refreshments that seemed to constantly refill.  Out of the corner of her eye she spotted her father. Once a beater for England, now a named broker at Stonem and Chang law firm, Jason headed the Magical Games and Sports division, where he managed and represented most International Quidditch players. On occasion he even defended the players in court if they ever got into a spot of bother, and was certainly a man who people wanted on their side when they turned pro. He was currently engaged in a lengthy conversation with a recent transfer from America, who Isabelle was sure she had seen at a few recent parties and therefore was probably causing quite a lot of trouble. She giggled lightly under her breath as her father raised his head and winked at her, indicating that they should have to stay much longer, and she turned instead to the food which was spread out magnificently before her. She placed her champagne glass down on the table and it magically refilled, and she helped herself to a selection of sandwiches before taking a seat, alone at the back of the tent. 

Quidditch was a strong part of Wizarding culture. Much like football was for Muggleborns. Most professionals started out during their school years by playing for their house teams, or even younger than that if their parents allowed it. Eustace Trevelyan was lucky enough to have parents who constantly gave him what he wanted but also knew when to give him some space. He was truly grateful for that and his brothers for putting up with his needs to play the game at home. It was difficult playing with less players than required but it worked. Eustace could really hone in on his favoured position: Chaser. Julian often pointed out his small build would suit Seeker but he never listened. His ambitious nature landed him in Slytherin and he often joked with Julian how they would beat Ravenclaw. Of course their house team still lost due to Gryffindor’s Seeker. It never fazed Eustace, however, who soon realised that he just enjoyed being up the air and playing in earnest. He disapproved of the rough tactics but attempted to blend in. At least he didn’t pick up a habit when he later became a professional player.

Eustace was so pleased with himself when he was offered a place on the reserves for Puddlemere United. It was some point after that he was actually playing. It was amazing to hear the crowds cheer his name and to be playing on a team that he admired. Plus his father shone with pride and was always boasting about his Quidditch player son. Eustace wished his mother was still alive to see his achievements as she was always his support. It almost broke him when she passed away as now there was a huge hole in his heart. Elspeth has tried to patch it up but it was never truly whole again. It probably never would.

“Trevelyan, this conference will forge international friendships and introduce you to the public. Go mingle with the fans, talk to the press. Just be on your best behaviour,” his coach gently pushed him towards the crowd. “If you need me I’ll be with Wood.” With that the older man disappeared, obviously going to find Oliver Wood; Keeper for the team and an old rival of Eustace’s. The two formed a truce when they realised they were on the same team now. It was easier than either one had thought it would be.

“Where to begin?” He mumbled to himself, running a hand through his hair. Eustace could see Julian, Elspeth and their father in the crowd, obviously there for moral support. Eustace, however, could feel the butterflies fluttering around the pit of his stomach. He knew that he couldn’t speak with strangers without something bad happening. What he gave away something about his past or his constant struggles with his sexuality? If he ended up talking to a reporter, he might let something unpleasant slip.

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The shop was eerily quiet to Isabelle, and she couldn’t help but notice how the use of space was entirely unsuitable for the function of the shop. How was anyone expected to find anything in here? The several cauldrons burning on the counter top immediately caught her interest, and she barely noticed the man standing behind them as she gravitated over, her golden eyes already taking stock of the ingredients and the possibilities of what he might be making.  Raising an eyebrow at his warning, Isabelle knew better than to snap back, and she finally took note of the man in front of her. She knew who he was, or rather, she knew who his family were. Calculating quickly if there were any links between them, Isabelle decided that it was pointless trying make pleasantries, the man clearly neither wanted or needed Isabelle there so she could only assume he was doing a professor at the school a favour.

Instead, she shrugged her bag from her shoulders and reached to pull a hair-tie from her wrist. Pulling her hair up tightly out of the way, she looked Samuel square in the face and nodded once. “I hear you,” she replied, letting her hands drop to her sides as she eyed the firing cauldrons once again on the table, her fingertips tingling with anticipation. “What do you want me to do?” she asked. 

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C

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The Daily Prophet was a wizarding institution, one of which had been part of Isabelle’s life since she could remember and one which linked her so closely with her father. Whether it was finding clippings of his picture in the sports section to cut out and stick on the fridge, or later debating him about the legal cases he had taken on representing their world’s finest and worst- it was something that had brought them together. 

When he had suggested she take a placement for the holidays at the national newspaper Isabelle had not argued. Unlike St. Mungos and Gringotts, she actually had an interest in what was going on at the newspaper, ever the one for sourcing a bit of gossip.

And it was for that reason that Isabelle found herself that Monday morning, sat in the entrance and reception of the Daily Prophet’s offices instead of being in class at school. Outrageously smart, and as the Head Girl, the teachers had been understanding in writing her off for a week to get some work experience. They each had high hopes for Isabelle in their own respective fields, but knew that she had no particular inclination towards any one. She favoured Potions, if only for her Uncle’s influence, and much to her father’s disappointment had flourished in flying class but never bothered trying out for the team. Isabelle had yet to find a passion that excited her to the point of bothering to pursue it. Besides, with her family background, she would never have to work a day in her life if she didn’t want to.

Tapping her shoe impatiently against the tiled floor, Isabelle stared blankly across the room at the three receptionists working away. They directed calls and took notes with precision, but Isabelle wondered if it was a requirement to be a middle-aged, thin-haired old crone to work there. She prayed that the woman she was supposed to shadow for the week had more about her.

Isabelle heard the door open, and brushed her hands across her skirt quickly before slapping a small and polite smile on her ruby red lips, turning towards the woman who had walked in to greet her. 

@elizabethabbotthprp

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There was a certain mystique and therefore a certain power and status associated with Potions that Isabelle was fully aware and appreciative of in school. Though she was outrageously smart and scoring highly in all of her subjects, she had a flare for potions and a close relationship with her Uncle who held the subject in the highest regard.  The blonde sat for forty minutes at least on the small wall outside of the wizarding village of Hogsmede, watching the door of the Potions shop swing open and closed, dragging on cigarette after cigarette.  There was something beautiful, she supposed in the way that only eighteen year olds do, in inhaling the tobacco and blowing out pure white smoke. It was like magic, Isabelle thought, magic that you made in a moment in your lungs.  It would kill her. She knew, her mother reminded her often enough, when she caught Isabelle outside in the garden at night, out of sight of her father. It was her mother after all, who taught her the incantation to disguise the smell of cigarettes which stuck to her hair and clothes and instead surrounded her with an aroma of Alpine air.  With a glance at the watch on her wrist, Isabelle sighed and flicked the cigarette stub in the direction of an old wizard making his way towards the village. He tutted at her, and received a heavy eye roll in response, before Isabelle cast the charm to eliminate the cigarette smell over herself without even reaching for a wand.

While Isabelle had gone to the wand-makers shortly before her first year at Hogwarts, she had not felt a golden rush and bond tie her to the instrument. Her Uncle, who was prevalent in both wand-less and wordless magic, had taught her how to channel her magic ability from a very early age. The wand was a beautiful decoration for Isabelle, like a master Potioneer might favour a particularly intricate and expensive cauldron, but it wasn’t necessary for her to make magic. The Stonem girl had not yet mastered wordless magic, but being wand-less certainly saved her some time in Potions class and had quickly earned her a pristine record by her teacher’s standards.

When her father had insisted she start exploring job options for when she finished her final school year in a few months time, Isabelle had been heavily reluctant. She had entertained his set ups with meetings at the Ministry of Magic and various legal practices, even a stint at a private healers- but none of them inspired even a flicker of interest.  Potions, however, she was deeply interested in. Since her Uncle had told her of the fantastical and mysterious concoctions he had created in his lifetime, and even given her his potions journal for her eighteen birthday- Isabelle had a spark of a fascination.  She hopped, bunny-like, from the wall and strode purposefully towards the shop. Once outside the Potions shop she untucked her hair from her jacket, blonde tresses falling like a waterfall over her shoulders. She placed her hand steadily and confidently on the door and pushed. 

@samlucascarrow

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Billie Lourd

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Isabelle stared through Kisa like she was nothing more than a ghost in a hallway. Her voice even became a dull buzz in Isabelle’s ears and she resisted the urge to swat her away like a fly. Reaching for a strand of hair, Isabelle tilted her head to the left and narrowed her eyes, like a puppy who couldn’t quite understand what was happening before its eyes.  “I’m going to speak slowly so you can understand me,” Isabelle said, enunciating each word, “can you.. have... a little... tact.”

Isabelle was not one for suffering fools, and Kisa’s attitude was putting an extra dampener on the already grey day. She took a further step towards Kisa, and bit her lip, giving her a look of pity. She stepped to Kisa’s left, making her way around her as one might avoid a homeless person on the street.  “What made you so...” Isabelle grinned to herself, as though finding the words were difficult to her when she had her exact phrase on the tip of her tongue, “bleak... that you need to threaten fourth years to have fun?” She gave a half-giggle, as though the whole situation amused her, “Have you considered picking on someone your own size?”

open starter; set in hogwarts

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Isabelle’s hood covered her blonde head from the end of the bar of the Hog’s Head Inn. A glass of Firewhisky sat in front of her, untouched, a silent ruse. Isabelle had not touched a drop of alcohol since a summer at her Aunt Keira’s Swiss vineyard when she was fifteen. Her brother had started a drinking game with her which had ended with a hangover of a lifetime, and with the destruction of not one but two quite expensive cars. While Isabelle’s wild-child days were far from over, she sought entertainment in more creative and exotic ways than simply getting wasted, hence her appearance in the rotting old tavern that evening. She waited on a friend of her Uncle’s. One whom, she had been assured, would have access to any number of magic ingredients she might wish to purchase. It was not usual for a dealer of such wares to be so far North in Scotland, so she had been instructed that he would be alone and would not approach her directly.  Isabelle had been watching Felix Nabokov for some time, narrowing slightly as she watched him savour his drink. For an eighteen year old girl Isabelle was surprisingly worldly- though through no ambition of her own. Her famous parents had thrust her into the spotlight at an early age, and her family were as complicated as they were close. Her Aunt, a werewolf, her Uncle a reformed murderer, and that was just on her Father’s side.  Isabelle was well aware of what Felix Nabokov was, what he had done and what he continued to do. She was well aware that the ministry had been searching for him for some time, and that with one small spell she could have a dozen aurors down here in a moment, and wouldn’t that cause some excitement? The Stonem girl pulled her hood even further over her face and lifted up her drink, moving from her seat over to the corner where Felix sat. He must be the person her Uncle had arranged to meet her... why else would a convicted felon come to the small wizarding village. She wordlessly took a seat on a stool opposite the vampire and placed her full drink down on the table, her hand steady for Isabelle was fearful of nothing. 

open —

Felix had never been one for rules. His entire life had been spent either managing to stay two steps ahead of the countless law enforcement that wanted nothing more than to see him locked up for good, or simply just silently stalking down yet another helpless victim to satisfy his unquenchable bloodlust and sickly sadistic killer instinct. Thanks in the most part to a hearty trust fund, well connected parents and his own supernatural charm of hypnosis upon others, the Nabokov male was, to this very day quite literally getting away with murder. Perched on a wooden stool in the darkest corner of the Hogs Head pub, the vampire swigged happily at the molten hot Firewhisky; savouring the burn as his throat burned. Ocean-blue orbs scanning the crowded bar for a familiar face.

[isabellestonem]

Hogwarts open starter

“Issy are you coming? Transfiguration already start-” The mousey haired Slytherin was cut off with a stare that silenced her immediately, and Isabelle closed the issue of the Daily Prophet in her hands in a painfully slow motion which made the other girl noticeably wince.  “I mean Isabelle...” the girl started again, but her voice faltered off into a meaningless whisper as Isabelle gave a dainty sigh. “Sophie are you an alarm clock?” Isabelle asked slowly. “I-uh,” Sophie hesitated, “I-um, no, no I’m not.” “Would you like to be transfigured into one?” Isabelle asked again, leaning forward in one of the black leather armchair that littered Slytherin Common Room. “No, Isabelle, I just-” Isabelle’s eyes only had to flicker towards the Common Room door for a split second before the girl scurried away without another word.

Finally alone, Isabelle rose from the seat and stretched in a cat-like movement. She padded to her dormitory, which thankfully she did not need to share with another since her appointment as Head Girl, and collected a towel and wash bag.  The Prefect bathroom on the fifth floor was Isabelle’s place of haven. Though there was more than often a fight between who got to use it and when, since it was also shared with all Prefects and Quidditch captains, Isabelle found that a Monday first period, it was empty. Even Moaning Myrtle knew to stay away when the youngest Stonem girl was occupying it. 

The floors and corridors between the dungeons and the fifth floor were empty aside from a few ghosts who gave her a curious but courteous nod. Swinging the towel over her shoulder and swung her wash-bag carelessly by her side. 

[isabellestonem]

Unfortunately for Isabelle, the poor weather did not excuse her from her duties as Head Girl. Isabelle found these duties largely tedious- delivering notices between professors, ensuring students adhered to school policy, and keeping the prefects in line - all torturously boring, and in her opinion, beneath her, though her HG badge did ensure she held a position of authority within the school. Outrageously intelligent and at the top of the school social ladder, Isabelle was sure to leave Hogwarts that year with a pristine record.  Striding her way down to the greenhouses, black heels clicking on the stone pathway, Isabelle made her way to retrieve some ingredients she would need for Potions later that day. She found herself, annoyingly, behind what could only be described as a gaggle of Gryffindors stalking (unsuccessfully) a taller female student. 

Hearing the girl’s voice threaten the group, an ache of despair formed in Isabelle’s stomach. She would have to intervene. Her role wasn’t like that of a prefect, who were known to favour their own house and be turn a blind eye to students from other houses who they didn’t like.  “Because if that wand leaves your pocket Mikhailov..” Isabelle warned, her voice dangerous, “you’ll find yourself in the Headmaster’s office before you can say ‘Mother Russia.” The group of Gryffindor’s turned to stare up at Isabelle with a mixture of admiration and terror on their faces. “Move,” Isabelle barked at them, causing them to scramble amongst themselves and disappear up the hill towards the castle. 

open starter; set in hogwarts

The sun was feeling shy today, the grey fluffy clouds covering it up, and preventing the brightness to shine down. A slight chill in the air, it wasn’t quite summertime yet, a realisation that soon came crashing down. She missed the sun, she missed going on her family holidays. To see her number of family members, and to enjoy family time, to appreciate those around her. She was certainly someone to not give a care in anyone’s assumptions about her, they knew her, good for them. They didn’t truly know her, personally. They knew her name, not her story, Kisa was scarred, metaphorically and physically. Her persona hadn’t changed, still the arrogant, foul mouthed slytherin that she’d always been, she had learnt that being nice, didn’t get her very far, and she certainly wasn’t going to change. No. She was Kisa Mikhailov, the daughter of a Russian mafia boss, who she had inherited his personality and her mother’s good looks.  Russet hues scanned around the grounds, her back turned to whoever she was sensing approaching her. “Give me one reason not to take my wand out and hex your ass.” Kisa demanded with a high pitched tone, she wasn’t going to wait around for a response, she didn’t have all day.