#SILRP:event

[vanciful]

Creature Comforts || Open Starter

Pale toes pressed into the space between the couch cushions, as fingers weaved around the sturdy china mug and Emmeline Vance tried very hard not to think about anything. Missing isn’t dead, she silently repeated for the umpteenth time that evening as her eyes stared absently at the television set in the corner of her cosy living room. The Muggle news was on. Four people injured and one found dead in Belfast that morning. Found dead. Like the passive made the blow any less painful to whoever the poor sod’s family was. She changed the channel. 

They were all working overtime at the Prophet, working overtime everywhere according to her friends in the Ministry. Just trying to keep up with the chaos that was getting its dirty fingers into the fabric of magical society and tugging, hard. People didn’t want to notice, of course they didn’t but people were going missing, had been going missing for years and the world was burying their collective head in the sand. It was infuriating.

Caradoc had been the last straw, for Emmeline, and writing up the article in yesterday’s paper had damn near killed her. She had owled HQ, said that work was going to keep her away for a couple of days but she’d be sleuthing to find some info on Dearborn. And she was, work hardly noticing that this time it was different, that it was personal. 

The knock at the door startled her, as the hairs on her arms stood on end. It wouldn’t be the first time a journalist had been accosted at home. People got nasty when they were desperate, and Emmeline for whatever reason had become one of the faces of the Prophet. Owls were coming in almost once a week, begging her to help find a missing person; mum, dad, sister. Like she was a detective and not just the person who mopped up the murder scene at the end of the day. 

The redhead looked down at herself as she got to her feet, taking in her appearance. The oversized tshirt, one of her brothers’, went down to her knees. And the worn sleeping pants were ones she had gotten in her third year at Hogwarts, the bottom of each leg scuffed and torn. Emmeline shrugged, set down her mug and moved towards the door. 

Her house, a small cottage in the Cotwolds (because who could really afford to rent in London?) was protected by several wards that she and other Order members had erected not too long ago so she was fairly certain it was friend and not foe knocking, but she grabbed her wand for good measure. “Constant vigilance,” she mumbled to herself, Moody’s voice in her head, clear as a bell. Man, that guy was paranoid.

Opening the door to the chill, crisp summer night, Emmeline found herself grinning at her unexpected guest on the stoop. “Isn’t 11pm a little late for a social visit?” She found herself asking, even as she stood aside to let the person in question in. “Tea?”

[lioness-of-fire-blog]

The workdays seemed to drag ever since the news broke on the murder of Olivia Travers.  It was inescapable, as every person whispered among themselves their speculations of how such a horrific tragedy could occur, but for Lily, and many of the Order, it went deeper than that.  The thought of the how and why of what happened to that little girl and her nanny had plagued her mind ever since learning the news.  The extent of the cruelty among their enemies was an intense awakening to just what dangers they were dealing with.  If they would take the life of a child in such a brutal manner, what would they do to someone in their ranks?  For Lily, what would they do to her own family?  Her parents and her sister had no defenses against magic, and the burden of keeping them safe only seemed to grow heavier with each passing day.

Walking home from the job, Lily realized she’d been moving more slowly than normal and she could only assume subconsciously she was reluctant to go spend time by herself.  Perhaps stopping somewhere on the way would help?  She’d already passed Rosa Lee Teabag and the ice cream parlor, so those weren’t really options anymore, but she paused as the brightly colored candies and pastries in the window of Sugarplum’s Sweets Shop caught her eye. 

Lily didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but even she had to admit the display before her looked enticing.  The distraction didn’t last long as she wondered if Olivia had had an opportunity to try some of the treats before her.  It seemed she couldn’t keep her mind from the dark truth of their current world long enough to even enjoy something as simple as decorated fudge.

She froze as she became aware that someone had walked up and stopped just behind her on her left.  While it was likely just someone else looking for a treat, her current thoughts and the overall anxious tension she found herself in cause several red flags.  She turned slowly to glance back at the person, praying their focus was not on her, but the window or anything else around them.

[estrela--marlene-blog]

✉️ owl | caradoc

So I guess it was true.

I’m sending this in some hope that you’ll miraculously get it and tell me it was all one big prank.

What’s happening is wrong. We can’t just stand idly by while this shit goes on.

It feels like the whole world is crumbling and I can’t even bother you about it. I’m so angry. At the world, at myself, at everything that’s happening.

Please, Doc.

Give us a sign.

- M.

[viciousvisagearchived]

The Dog Days Are Over | R & R

Rodolphus had spent every moment not at the Lord’s side, with Rabastan. He’d left the hospital only to sleep and attend necessary meetings. The Lestrange Heir had even requested a leave of absence from the Ministry, his first ever...But with Rabastan looking the way he had, and Fenrir too? It was too much to handle. Bella was a mess after Amycus’ accusations towards her and part of him couldn’t help but wonder if she had truly done it...a thought he regretted the instant it had formed in his mind. Had the screws in her head not have already started to come loose, no such thing ever would have occurred. Ultimately, he knew it wasn’t his Bella. Fenrir, perhaps...but Rabastan? No way would Bella hurt him. 

When the news hit the front page of the prophet today announcing the culprit and what had really knocked them for a six, he felt the weight of a small world leave his shoulders. Not only was her name cleared, but those he cared for so deeply would survive. They’d all be okay, it was going to come out in the wash.. And as he watched his brother’s sleeping form, his face was peaceful in a way that no longer mirrored death, but satiated happiness. His breath left his chest in a rush of relief as a darkened hand found his sibling, rubbing circles against his wrist. He felt warm to the touch and were he able to cry, he most probably would have in that moment. Rodolphus had never felt such happiness... “You’re fine, brother mine. You’re going to be just fine.”

@rabxlestrangex

[angelusxxmortis-blog]

Poison Thy Blood | A & B

It had been days since the first victim had entered St Mungo’s yet Amycus remained as baffled as ever...unsure of what was causing the sick and fallen to stay as such. At first it had only been two but now? Eight in total were affected, eight victims who suffered endlessly. After conducting every kind of test possible, Amycus was able to eliminate curses, jinxes most potions and all spell related sicknesses...the only thing left was poison. Specifically? Angel’s Trumpet Draught.

The only reason he hadn’t detected it sooner was because the potion had been brewed improperly. The person had failed...thankfully. It meant that all those afflicted would survive, especially now that they had the antidote he had brewed earlier this morning. The only issue was who? Who could do this? And the answer had just strolled by him after visiting her sick and soon-to-be brother-in-law.

Bellatrix Black was the only witch crazy enough to poison her own people whilst trying to get back at the other side... Calling out to her, he closed the distance between where he stood and the space she now occupied...”Got a minute?”

@ladybellatricks

[magicalminerva]

Making a Scene :: Alastor & Minerva

@talldarkandmoody Safely installed in her modest cottage on the end of Hogsmeade nearest the castle, Minerva felt the sweat heavy upon her forehead. She had convinced Pomfrey to release her to her home, with a promise that she would send an owl if anything got worse, and another in the morning no matter what. Spending the night in the infirmary was nigh upon unbearable to her, for a number  of reasons. Her escort home had caused far too much commotion for her liking as it was. 

Laying in her bed, Minerva reached a shaky hand for the glass of water on her bedside table, only to find herself drifting towards darkness once again. Biting her own tongue, she found the sharpness of the pain helped draw her back towards reality. Unsure what was occurring, she reassured herself yet again it had to simply be some sort of bug a student had given her. At least, that was the thought that let her mind rest the easiest. 

Giving up on the drink, she lay back in her bed, the room spinning a little too quickly once again. A knock came at the door and she groaned, unsure she had the strength to answer it. Again it came, although this time with more force and vigor. However, before she could make up her mind to answer it, the door blew in with a magical bang, a large figure silhouetted in it. 

[rabxlestrangex-blog]

Rabastan first noticed something was wrong while he was sitting at one of the informal dining tables in the manor, his elbow on the table, hand propped against his temple as he leaned over the copy of Witch Weekly he’d dug out of his pocket to flip through again. The whole mess with the Ministry break-in had set him on edge. It wasn’t random, and it had to mean something. He just wished he had more information. His head was throbbing, and he entirely blamed whoever decided to turn his brother’s office upside down. Rab blinked, blearily, and got lost in the middle of a paragraph, rereading the same line again. And again. And again. And suddenly his head was slipping out from where it was propped against his hand, and he saw the hard wood of the table rapidly approaching through unfocused eyes. Rab caught himself before his nose found itself bashed against the tabletop, heart beating wildly, and he straightened sharply where he sat. 

Shit. He hadn’t been having trouble sleeping, nor did he remember feeling tired- everything had been fine at lunch with Val and Regulus. He’d have written it off as a fluke if, as he blinked, looking around the room, he didn’t feel as though whatever parts of his head weren’t repeatedly being bashed with a blunt axe were wrapped in cotton wool. Sleep. He should go to bed. It must be at least evening by now. Or maybe the late afternoon, there was no telling how long he had sat staring at the magazine. Rabastan’s gaze shifted to the pages open before him, and he was slightly alarmed to see it was open to the wrong article entirely- something about a trend for a particular cut of robes. Clearly he had been distracted, and the headache might have been getting to him. His internal reasoning wasn’t particularly convincing. Bed, though. That seemed sensible. 

Pushing the chair back from the table was reassuringly easy. Standing up was not. It was as if the floor had been pulled out from under him the moment he stood, and Rabastan swayed dangerously sideways, clinging to the edge of the table to regain his balance and checking it with a hip as he did so- sending the magazine sliding to the floor and his wand skittering off the table and rolling off after it. He didn’t notice either, eyes closed, breaths shallow. Screw bed, new plan. Rab knew exhaustion and this wasn’t it. Rab needed Rodolphus and he needed him now. 

Opening his eyes again was an effort, his stomach roiling as if he'd just been spun upside-down. Sucking in a breath, Rabastan stared with narrowed eyes at a doorway which seemed to sway before him, and thanked any number of gods and fates and ancient powerful wizards that he could navigate the Lestrange mansion in pitch darkness anyway, and that some whim had placed him fairly close to Rod’s bedroom. A hand leaning heavily on the wall, Rab stumbled out of the room and into the hall, fumbling around ornamental tables and muttering confused apologies to portraits his hand bashed into the frame of, knocking askew. The portraits in question babbled questions and commentary- their voices too loud, too shrill- but the words seemed to bleed together as Rabastan processed them, and something told him that if he stopped moving he wouldn’t start again any time soon. And so he kept moving forward, eyes locked in a sort of tunnel vision on the hall before him. 

It took millennia, eons, to get to Rodolphus’ room, and yet as Rabastan slid down the wall next to his brother’s door he could barely remember how he had gotten there. His arse hit the floor and he continued sinking further into an awkward slumped position, one leg bent and trapped under the dead weight of the other. The single-minded determination that had driven him to Rodolphus’ door was leaking out of him, and it showed physically. 

Sure that his brother would appear at any moment and fix whatever it was that was wrong with him, Rabastan let his eyes flutter shut. It had never occurred to his foggy and addled mind to knock. 

@viciousvisage

[ehhdgarbones]

These Troubled Times | E & X

@theyrexeno

Normally hyper aware of his surroundings, as to observe and take in as much as possible, Edgar couldn’t manage that level of focus. His mind was a tempest of rage and fear, of horror and hate. It felt as if his heart hadn’t stopped hammering against his sternum since he’d received the Daily Prophet that morning. 

With Alastor’s visit to the Three Broomsticks, there wasn’t surprise in the front page article that had passed over the breakfast table in company of his morning coffee. In its place was disgust and outrage, mingled with a tinge of dismay. If they could do something like this to one of their own...

His family hadn’t ever been that close with the Travers. Like many other pure blooded families, he was aware of most of them in name at the very least. All he knew was what the Order had known: that they were Death Eaters, or at least suspected to be. Now he couldn’t help but wonder if they wished they’d chosen a different path if it would’ve spared their daughter’s life.

Gaze downcast on the stonework path underfoot, Edgar was lost to the storm of his thoughts as he carved a worn path through Diagon Alley. It was all he could do to keep from kicking down doors to the homes of other suspected Death Eaters and demanding to know what they knew. It was only Alastor’s word that kept him leashed, and Amelia’s worry that kept his temper mostly in check. But he’d need a distraction if he was going to be kept from doing something especially dim-witted. 

Lifting his attention from the ground to the surrounding buildings, Edgar realized that he’d walked too far and had to backtrack a few blocks before he found the right building. He threw open the door that led to a flight of stairs and climbed to the flight on which Xenophilius’s flat was located on. A rap on the door went unanswered and, worry jumping into his throat, he tested the knob. 

The door opened to reveal an empty apartment, vacant of his friend but filled with odd knick-knacks and what not’s that they collected on their meanderings. “Xen?” Edgar shouted into the apartment. His heart rate was picking up, dread making him anxious. He swallowed it down. Xeno had a tendency to wander. It didn’t mean anything had happened to them. He’d check the roof before he started to worry.

First stopping by the kitchen to retrieve two cups from the cupboard, Edgar left the flat and started up the stairs again. He found his way onto the roof and immediately let loose a relieved breath at the sight of long, blonde hair swaying in the wind. Edgar approached silently from behind. A kiss was placed to the top of Xeno’s head before he lowered himself beside them. 

“Thought I’d find you up here,” muttered Edgar as he set down the two cups between them, then started to work the cork loose from the bottle of cheap wine he’d brought with him. “Drink with me? I brought your favorite.” He poured a generous amount into both cups before setting the bottle aside again. One of the cups was lifted and offered to the witch. 

Edgar didn’t force a smile, or anything at all. Right that moment he wanted nothing more than to absorb Xeno’s innate ability to shut out the whole rest of the world and all its complications, all its tragedies and conflict. He wanted to share a drink with a friend. 

[theyrexeno]

The Mulpepper Mystery | X & F

Xeno tried the door of Mr. Mulpepper’s Apothecary and frowned disapprovingly down at it when it turned out to be locked. “Frank?” They moved to look through the large front windows, pressing their nose against the glass, eyes slightly narrowed as they looked into the shop, “Oh, it’s not even been broken into,” they muttered quietly. Raising their voice slightly again, as if addressing the general area would make Frank appear out of nowhere, Xeno spoke again, “Frank, your coworkers aren’t very helpful people.” 

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had looked like an anthill that had been unfortunately tripped over, people rushing back and forth, engaged in hurried conversations, desks left empty. Xeno’s entire trip to the Ministry had been spent reassuring themself that everything would be sorted if only they could report the break-in of their flat to someone at the DMLE. After wandering around the level two of the Ministry for nearly thirty minutes, nothing had been sorted. Actually, things were probably worse.

Apparently someone had broken into the office of one of those men who thought they were very interesting and important. Someone had stolen prophecy records. And someone had turned Xenophilius’ flat upside down and could very well have stolen something. Xeno didn’t think that was a coincidence. No one in the DMLE seemed to agree. 

The Aurors they’d approached had responded with varying levels of sympathy, but all had more or less agreed that they were currently too busy to consider the case immediately and ushered them along to the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, who concurred on the call of being too busy, though Xeno wasn’t terribly certain they believed them- the wizard doodling at the reception desk didn’t seem to have much to do, anyway. No one seemed to understand there must be a connection between the break-ins. Xeno thought it might have to do with the fact that the DMLE had stopped responding to their letters years ago, apparently unconcerned about all the potentially dangerous creatures and beings Xeno was simply trying to bring to the attention of the proper authorities.

It had taken a considerable about of cajoling, but Xeno had at least managed to figure out that Frank was investigating some apothecary’s disappearance and so was most likely in Diagon Alley. Even if Frank couldn’t drop everything to help- which would be nice, but no one had stolen an entire live person from Xeno’s flat so they figured he probably wouldn’t- he’d probably at least listen. And so here they were, nose pressed against the window of the shop, one hand braced against the wall and the other very gently holding the broken off head of a blue ceramic dragon, fished out of the chaos of their flat nearly an hour before.

“Frank?” 

@frnklongbottom

[primaballerinazabini-blog]

Are You a Gambling Man, Mr. Lestrange? | R&V

@viciousvisage

She’d been summoned. For what, Valerian didn’t yet know. If she had to guess... well, she wasn’t so self absorbed as to think it had everything to do with the delight of her company. Though it was delightful.

No. If she were going to venture a guess, Val suspected that her summons had something to do with the Daily Prophet’s most litigious front page article. A little girl was dead, murdered, slaughtered like a psychopath’s plaything. An example was made and now was the time to evaluate the fallout. Drawn in blood instead of sand, the time had come to learn who fell on which side of the line? 

Valerian didn’t see why she had to chose sides. As far as she was concerned the skull and snake decorating her arm symbolised her having already chosen the winning side. Why make it any more complicated than that? She was a pureblood and a Death Eater, obedient to her Master. One would assume that it was enough. Clearly, after a tapping beak on her window pane and a delivered summons for “tea,” one had assumed incorrectly.

Before the attack on the Travers family, Valerian wouldn’t have thought herself afraid of anyone. The Dark Lord took care of his followers and Lucius was His trusted ally. She and Narcissa had been best friends since childhood, surely that granted Val a certain amount of additional protection. Her confidence wavered.

The Travers  were also purebloods and Death Eaters. They were an old and respected family. If something like this could happen to them... Val needed to reevaluate her position within the ranks. If there was surer footing to be found then she needed to be standing on it. If this meeting with Rodolphus Lestrange was to be a peer evaluation, Valerian had her own appraising to do.

Dressed to the nines in cherry red pumps that accentuated the well defined musculature of her toned legs, a daytime appropriate Greengrass Original clung modestly to her curves. Lacy and black, the two piece was respectable in its snug fit. The cropped halter top exposed only about an inch or so of midriff before the high waisted skirt pinched her middle and flared out in flowy pleats that hemmed off about mid-thigh. 

Long, dark hair toppled over her shoulders in silken waves, not a strand out of place. Her makeup was subtle save for the bold, winged eyeliner and bright red lipstick that matched her heels and sharply manicured nails. Valerian’s appearance was that of effortless vogue and resplendent seduction. 

Upon her arrival to the Lestrange estate she was escorted to the stately drawing room and assured that the Master of the house would be with her shortly. Valerian didn’t sit. Instead she walked the room, casually perusing the ornaments and design. Stopping at the grand piano near the window, she lifted the fall board to expose the ivory keys. Pointed nails tapped a simple melody. 

She was familiar with this part of The Game. Being made to wait was an easy reminder of one’s importance. The longer the wait, the less important. The classic tune filled the drawing room in absent strokes as Valerian mused how long she’d be made to wait. 

[hxneybeeeeee]

It took a lot to make Marlene angry. Reading and rereading the article did nothing to improve on her mood, neither did going downstairs and watching her family whisper to each other, or hear her mother tell her friends with children the same age as the little darling to not let their little ones play outside unsupervised. She knew the family was at the top of The Order’s list, but this...this was unexpected. She didn’t know what was going on and that, of course, made her more irritable than usual. After muttering a quick goodbye to her family she rushed down the street, her mood worsening the more she heard people whispering about it.

What made it worse was the article. Seeing a mother weeping broke Marlene’s heart into a million pieces. She knew they were on the wrong side, she knew they had darkness down in their very cores but...this was atrocious to think they could even go that far. The thought sparked another train of thought: if those who belonged in their group weren’t safe, were others? Probably not. Marlene couldn’t stand to look in the face of people she knew, mothers and fathers with children at Hogwarts that Marlene had once babysat when they were children.

This prompted her to take a longer path. She didn’t exactly know where her destination was headed, but she was alone and it gave her time to sit and let everything run through her mind a few dozen times. Marlene’s train of thought was disrupted when she walked into someone, staggering backwards and glaring at the other. “Oi! Watch it! Pay attention where you’re walking.” she was being a hypocrite and she knew it, but she was not going to apologize.

[itsalcprwtt-blog]

Sick Leave | Open Starter

Blue skies were visible through the open blinds on the far wall of her room. Daylight flooded the space in a soothing flow of effulgent yellow. She watched the dark shape of a bird flap across the cloudless background, her thoughts far from the scene she was staring off at.

Something was wrong. Beyond the fact that she’d woken up in a hospital bed, which had been an unpleasant realisation in and of itself. Her natural dislike of hospitals made being admitted to one a test on her adaptability. She hadn’t had a nervous breakdown yet, and she’d take her victories where she could. 

It wasn’t the firm mattress or the thin sheets, the white walls or sterile smell that lingered in the air, that made her thoughts whirr noisily in her head. It was the fact that she’d needed a hospital at all. Not long after waking up Alice had learned that she wasn’t the only one to be admitted with a mysterious, inexplicable illness. She heard the nurses whispering, had seen the figures pass by her door. Alice knew that Edgar and James were both here, too. And that was how she knew that something was wrong.

The last thing she remembered was their breakfast meeting at the Three Broomsticks. It’d been on Order business. Then they all three end up sick, hospitalised, with the same mysterious illness that no one could name or recognise. Alice didn’t think that was a coincidence. She just didn’t know what do with the information, if anything at all. Her head was still so foggy that her thoughts were going in circles and each iteration made less sense than the last.

There was a rap on her door. Alice’s gaze was still out the window, her focus was still caught up in unravelling the mystery, when she spoke the words were reflexive and far off to her own ears. “Come in.” She didn’t turn to see who’d come to visit, didn’t fully realise that she even had a visitor at all.

[srp-thedailyprophet]

5-year-old, Olivia Travers, found brutally murdered in family home.

Tragedy strikes the Travers family early yesterday evening, when Michael returned to find his home in wreckage. Left in the care of Dorothy Parkin, nanny to Olivia Travers, she and the young girl were caught by surprise yesterday mid afternoon. The pair were viciously murdered in an attack that has shaken not just the family, but neighbors, friends and our community as a whole.

With Mr. Travers at work and Mrs. Travers otherwise engaged, Olivia was entrusted in the care of her nanny early yesterday afternoon. House Elf, Bisky, was tasked with errands for the family, leaving no witnesses to either the atrocity committed or to identify the monster that committed it. Sources confirm that there are no current suspects.

The Ministry of Magic has refused to comment on the attack, as the investigation is underway. However, preliminary reports suggest that Olivia was in fact the intended target of this seemingly random and unprovoked brutality. As the Travers family is well liked and respected by their peers, the cause of this violence remains a mystery. Mr. and Mrs. Travers were unavailable to comment.

5-year-old Olivia Travers was a spirited and intelligent girl, sources say. “She was always laughing,” a family friend tearfully remembers. “Smiles followed wherever she went. I don’t understand why anyone would want to hurt her.” A sentiment that is shared throughout our community as we await word from the Ministry on any developments on the investigation.

More information will be released as the investigation continues. Until then we all send our thoughts, condolences, and well wishes to the Travers family during this trying time.

Article written for Silencio RP by Becca.

[estrela--marlene-blog]

✉️ owl | caradoc

Doc,

Scarlett’s really not that serious. She’s not going to kill you. Maybe just seriously maim or injure. 

I’m not entirely sure what’s going on, but everyone’s worried. You’re a bastard for doing this, you know? Is this some sick lesson on how we can’t function without you? It’s working.

If this is some sick joke then you own me a cauldron cake. And also a packet of sugar quills.

Please write back. We need to know you’re okay. Any sign’ll do.

Waiting here, Marls. 

[thehunteternal]

The Devil’s in the Details | Drabble

“Enough.” He grabbed the two fighting pups by their scruff and ripped them apart. His fists on their collars was all that kept them from lunging at each other. When the smaller of the two almost broke loose from his hold Fenrir yanked the girl back hard enough to snap her out of her rage. Both pups fell indignantly silent in his grasp, heads bowed in spite of the matching glowers on each of their faces.

He hadn’t seen what had instigated the fight and didn’t rightly care. What he saw was a clear victor. Letting the skirmish drag on any longer would result in needless injury, and that wasn’t how they settled things in this family.

To the taller, gangly limbed boy, he commanded, “Go get yourself cleaned off. And next time remember that size means nothing if you can’t wield it properly.” Spinning the boy around, Fenrir shoved him gently between the shoulders in the direction of the bathroom; whose medical cabinet was stocked with bandages and healing polstices.

The girl was hefted effortlessly into his arms and hoisted onto his shoulder to sit there like a parrot. Eliza was seven and a natural fighter. Surprising, considering her father was a politician. Fenrir had snatched her on Malfoy’s order, but turned her of his own volition. She’d taken to her wolf as if on instinct. When she was older he had every expectation that she’d be one of his fiercest fighters. If he were a more poetic man he’d have called it destiny.

Approaching the battered and chipped dining table, which was grooved with knife and claw marks, Fenrir growled at the young man occupying the seat at the head of the table. Another male sat to the right of him, older. Nose still buried within the pages of the Daily Prophet, he kicked the younger wolf under the table. Flimsy paper went slack in his hands so that his daggered eyes could peer over it, his own warning grumble echoing Fenrir’s as he motioned with his chin for the younger wolf to tuck tail.

From Fenrir’s shoulder, Eliza shouted an annoyed, “Sod off, Liam. That’s not your bloody seat.” That he was able to remain stone faced was a testament to his self control.

Outnumbered, the younger male vacated the seat at the head of the table in a huff and stomped off in the direction of the kitchen. Fenrir lowered Lizzy from his shoulder and back onto her feet. He pulled out the chair to his left and nodded for her to take it before claiming the still warm seat at the head of the table. He slouched in the chair and rifled through the breast pocket of his flannel for the cigarettes he kept there. A match was struck and he shielded the flame as he brought it to the tip of his cigarette and pulled smoke into his lungs.

As he exhaled, the male wolf to his right peered up at him with suspicion in his narrowed eyes. “Have you read the Prophet?”

Garrison was one of his oldest progenies, and among the most capable too. He was built like a house and strong like an ox. Killer instincts, with the reflexes to match, he was deadly no matter the moon’s phases. If ever there was a wolf strong and clever enough to replace him, it’d be Garrison. Undeterred by the occasional disagreement, he was loyal and Fenrir trusted him better than most.

Fenrir cocked an eyebrow at Garrison’s question. He didn’t answer right away, just stared at the younger male expressionlessly. Their gazes were still locked when Liam reentered the room with a bottle of whisky, a glass, and a plate of breakfast. Everything was placed in front of Fenrir, who only broke away from the other wolf’s gaze to nod the boy off again. When he returned to the young man to his right it was with a smirk. He poured whisky into the cup and pulled the plate closer to himself. The cigarette was set down on the ashtray atop the table.

Voice deep and grated with his natural baritone, he wondered a disinterested, “Should I?” He picked up the utensils and began to cut into the still bleeding meat on the plate before him.

The Prophet was folded neatly before it was slapped down in front of Fenrir. Garrison’s pointed glare was fixed on Fenrir’s face, anticipating his reaction. There wasn’t one to be found. Fenrir merely glanced at the paper as he dug into the plate in front of him and shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth. He huffed at the image of a sobbing mother, but didn’t give the article anything more than a passing glance.

“Seems a waste,” muttered Fenrir past a mouthful of food. A swig of whisky washed it down.

Garrison’s eyes flashed. A finger jabbed at the news article on the table in front of him. The other male recited a line from the paper on a low grumble. “...preliminary reports suggest that Olivia was in fact the intended target of this seemingly random and unprovoked brutality…” His hard gaze stayed schooled on Fenrir, brow furrowed and lip twitching with the distasted snarl trying to take hold of his expression. With an accusation in his tone, Garrison mused, “The Travers family was one of His people, weren’t they?”

His only reply was to scoff into his glass as he took another swig of whisky to chase the taste of hardly cooked meat. If there was any doubt before nothing could remain of it now. The Travers family would fall in line. Or he’d kill them too. And he’d make what he did to their daughter look like child’s play.

A glance at Garrison was all it took to recognize that he wasn’t about to let the investigation go that easily. Turning his focus onto the young girl to his left, Fenrir motioned for her to get out. Eliza’s glare was on Garrison, pinched eyebrows were knit with protective disapproval, but she eventually obeyed Fenrir’s command. She slid from her seat, still leering at the older wolf, and marched out of the room, leaving him and Garrison to their conversation.

“You did this.”

Eyebrow raised, he said nothing.

Taking Fenrir’s silence as a challenge, the younger man began to explain his reasoning. “Nowhere in the article was a single curse or jinx mentioned. This wasn’t a magical attack because the attacker wasn’t a magic user.” To Fenrir’s unimpressed expression, he tried a different angle. “No one would’ve dealt with the Travers family like this. Aurors aren’t in the business of maiming little girls to make examples out of them, and everyone outside of the Death Eaters is either too scared shiteless to cross them or too bleedin’ blind to realize what they are. This is outsourced infighting.”

Sucking a string of meat out from between his teeth, Fenrir leaned back in his seat. An arm went casually over the chair’s back, his elbow perched on the wooden slat. He picked his teeth with the knife from the table, looking neither concerned or impacted by Garrison’s observations. He removed the knife from his mouth to carelessly meet Garrison’s sharp gaze and inattentively wondered, “Are you approaching a point?”

“You killed her. For them.” It was the last word that appeared to bother Garrison the most. “He promised to bolster your numbers, but has you killing them instead. Did she put up a good fight, Greyback? A five year old girl must’ve been an adversary worthy of your talents, huh?”

Irritation rose in an instant. His chest vibrated with his impatience, which was met by a snarl from the other wolf. Hazel eyes sharpened to daggers. For several drawn out seconds neither of them said anything. They both sat there, sneering at each other, the tension rising between them as they waited for the other to react first. When Fenrir didn’t take the bait, Garrison started nettling again, provoking a reaction, itching for a fight.

“I’ve never known you to kill a child for the pleasure of it. Not like that. But one word from Them and you’re making headlines. These bastards are using you, using us, and you’re letting letting them. You’re nothing more an attack dog for them, the Dark Lord’s little bitch--”

Before the last thought could be voiced to completion Fenrir tore out from his seat in a blur. Ceramic and glass crashed and scattered as the plate was thrown off of the table. Their chairs clamoured backwards as Garrison shot up too, his fist already soaring through the air. The blow was blocked by Fenrir’s forearm. As was the second. Fenrir’s fist made its mark on Garrison’s cheek before he grabbed the younger wolf by his hair and slammed his face into the table three times. When he gripped the table to try and push himself up again, Fenrir stabbed his knife through Garrison’s hand and deep into the wooden surface, pinning it there.

From one instant to the next they’d gone from seated at the table, to Fenrir holding Garrison’s face against the wooden surface by fisting his mane and pressing his elbow into the back of his neck. Another knife was pulled from his belt and he held the tip a mere hairsbreadth away from the other male’s eye. Fenrir’s voice was a low, threatening growl that thundered from the pit of his lungs and seemed to shake the whole room.

“It’s not your time, boy,” seethed Fenrir through grit teeth, pressing his elbow deeper into his spine to hold Garrison still as he tried to inch away from the blade so near his face. “What contracts I take, who I take them from, that’s not your concern. If I had killed that girl, then I would’ve been doing the job that I was hired to do. It wouldn’t have mattered if she was in nappies. I’d have carved her out of her mother’s swollen belly if that had been the job.”

Snarling at his progeny, Fenrir suggested a threatening, “Worry less about what I do and who I work with. You have a long way to go before you’re ready to unseat me, whelp,” he spat. “You favour your left leg when you’re about to throw a punch. If you’re going to attack me don’t tell me what you’re going to do before you do it.”

He dropped the knife on the table in a clatter and stood upright, releasing Garrison from his hold. Fenrir snatched the cigarette from the ashtray, the only thing on the table to survive their scuffle, and brought it to his mouth. The smoke had a calming effect on the energy surging through his bloodstream. He turned on his heel and strode away from the table, leaving Garrison to free himself from the knife still embedded through his hand and into the table.

“Clean this mess up,” ordered Fenrir exhaling smoke as he left the compound in search of more fun. He hoped the next fight he found himself in would actually be a challenge. 

[angelusxxmortis-blog]

Amycus Carrow’s Attire for the Hogwarts Alumni Yule Ball