#silrp:starter

[mapsofstarlights-blog]

busy streets || open

Coming out of Quality Quidditch Supplies and into the rain, she heaved in a gulp of air. With the rain had come mugginess, and with London being what it was -- hulking brick buildings, insulated against the cold -- everywhere was uncomfortable, the streets felt like they were sweating. 

She had a pocket full of supplies, from broom polish to a new whisker kit that she’d been eyeing for along time and just finally decided to get it, but right now she didn’t want to head home. The Manor was suffocating, her parents stifling, and the last thing she wanted to do was go hole up and hide in her bedroom like a child. 

So she was going to spend as long as she could today in Diagon Alley, ignoring any responsibilities for a blissful few hours. She was going to hit up Florean Fortescue, see what new book releases they had going, but only after she got lunch at Leaky, her grumbling stomach making its displeasure known. 

She was using a Muggle umbrella, which was perhaps not the best of ideas to do in the narrow alleyway, but she didn’t want to cast an umbrella charm with her wand (it wasn’t practical, walking around with your wand like that, she didn’t care what anyone said) and she didn’t want to cast the Impervius Charm because washing clothes after that was an absolutely bugger and she’d just rather not. 

Besides. Ted had given her this. It had ladybugs on it. She liked it.

They were, however, a danger -- one plastic covered prong caught on some witch’s robe and she was apologising, plucking it off, she managed to catch whoever was behind her with the back of it. “I am so sorry,” she spoke as turned, getting a little flustered now; she decided to fold it down, and deal with getting wet -- it just wasn’t worth it. “This was a bad idea.”

[silenciorosier]

Sinnerman || Open

Based on this performance of ‘The Sinnerman’ for reference 

‘Oh, sinnerman, where you gonna run to? Sinnerman where you gonna run to? Where you gonna run to? All on that day...’

His longs fingers flew across the keys in a slowly building cascade of notes, his voice flying smoothly over them to the inhabitants of the small pub. It wasn’t uncommon for him to give small performances like these, enough to advertise himself, not that he need bother given his reputation, but also a way to busy his hands until a more pleasure-able pass time came along. 

‘So I ran to the Devil He was waitin', I ran to the Devil He was waitin', ran to the Devil He was waitin', all on that day’

A husk into his voice; the devil and he were old friends, arm in arm as they dealt with those given to them. Taking all that could be taken till husks remained, oh it was good work, exulting, enthralling, euphoric but unable to last forever. So he sang of his work, in his own way to parties and bar-full’s of plebeian fools.  

And I cried. Power Power, Bring down your power Lord, Bring down that power Lord!

Faster, harder, voice stronger, a glorious call of magic and the strength to take what could never be given. Precious elements of self that became his because he’d the will to make it so. Eyes closed in worship to power, a reverence to it so few could understand.

‘Oh, lordie, lordie, lord! Bring do--ooown Power. To, The... Lord!!’

The crescendo built to its zenith as those listening broke into applause at the final note. His voice faded into a memory; from a glorious affirmation to a half-baked remembrance most here would be humming tomorrow as they went about their boring lives...

He turned from the piano and smiled, standing only to bow slightly and headed for the bar, a well deserved fire-whiskey waiting on the house for him as he sat; though his contemplations were soon interrupted by a companion, one of the rabble come to praise him no doubt.

“I do hope you enjoyed the song.” he said with a smaller, but no less charming smile, the soft, gentle voice at odds with the powerful instrument of worship heard moments ago.

[itsmadamerosmerta-blog]

Beauty in the Familiar || Open Starter

Rosmerta loved what she did. Perhaps it lacked the grandeur of a cushy Ministry position, or the excitement of a life out in the world hunting vampires or breaking curses, but what Ros’ life lacked in spontaneity, it more than made up for in colour. The Three Broomsticks, like most pubs in the British Isles, served as the melting pot for all walks of life. Her warm gaze surveyed the quiet bar, at the way silver-spooned blue bloods rubbed elbows with her brow-beaten regulars- The ones that life had battered and left to flounder. It was their faces that her eyes clung to, smiling up at her over their third or fourth pints of the evening.

Dropping the steaming bowl of stew in front of the Vance child with a soft pat on to her red curls, Rosmerta winked at Broderick Bode as he watched her from his seat in the corner where he was conversing idly with Augustus Rookwood. She felt her grin hook upwards some degrees as she weaved her way back to the bar, making sure to swing her hips as she felt his gaze follow her. Dropping the tray on the side, the redhead ducked under the wooden flap in one fluid movement. Rosmerta had many years to overcome any insecurities that might have plagued younger women, but she was never as confident as when she was working a room full of her patrons.

Back at the bar a pretty Norwegian witch was making great strides in trying to seduce Walden MacNair, fingers dancing up and down his arm as smoothly as her accent danced across the foreign tongue. Further along, Ros briefly watched Lawrence Woodridge, sipping idly at his pint, face contentedly shoved into a heavy tome on Hungarian wand-making. It was a pretty serene tableau, even for a Tuesday night. Not that Rosmerta minded much. The Broomsticks was an institution, one that far outlived her own title as the pub’s matron. Even in these unsettled times, rather than act as a deterrent, the unrest seemed to be pushing people towards her doorstep as they sought out a moment of joy in the bottom of a glass. It was a service Madame Rosmerta was more than happy to provide. A quiet night, every once in a while, was a blessing of sorts.

Grabbing a cigarette from the pocket of Edgar’s heavy jacket, the woman shot the man a nod of acknowledgement as she tossed on her own cloak- fag break- and headed for the exit. She often worried that she took him for granted, her stony-faced champion, but Edgar tended to appear even when she gave him the night off so Ros supposed she might as well pay him for hanging about. The incident with the boggart had gone unmentioned, but even without the creature, he must have known how much he meant to her.

Stepping out, Ros felt the bite of the autumn air settling into her bones and she pulled the flowing garment around tightly around her frame. Lighting up the cigarette with the tip of her wand, Rosy took a long drag, letting the smoke sit in her chest and warm her from the inside. Turning, she spied a familiar figure ambling up the highstreet towards her. The woman smiled.

“Evening stranger,” she called, “coming to join me for a butterbeer on this cold autumn night?”

[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?”

[mayapatils-blog]

status: open to everyone!

Diagon Alley was not a location Maya Patil typically frequented for errands, however a recently received invite to a small, albeit formal gathering of sorts had her venturing the in the direction of Borgin and Burkes in the hopes of seeking out a unique, eye-catching piece to compliment her newest set of dress robes. She wanders through the store, fingers trailing over everything from ancient objects coated with dust to small trinkets of questionable heritage, the store undoubtedly entangled with the kind of dark magic she found herself naturally drawn to.

Her eye is briefly caught by a garishly shiny hairpiece, but she quickly ignores it in favor of a slightly more subtle necklace. Her tastes were undoubtedly more refined than some of the other Purebloods who often sacrificed elegance and sophistication for shimmer and flare and she finds her taste level to speak volumes of her own power. 

She’s not usually one for jewelry, finding it to be dreadfully distracting if not wholly impeding, however, often times presenting the part of a socialite required one to look the part, besides, how else could a vampire hunter show off her hard-earned fortune, if not through a new dignified set jewels? Catching a glimpse of a person in the mirror’s reflection, Maya turns ever so slightly, “So, what do you think? Worth a purchase?”

[aberforthright-blog]

after hours | open

The Hog’s Head had been Aberforth’s for long enough that a solid majority of its patrons couldn’t remember a time when the pub had run consistent hours. It had done, thirty-odd years before, but even under the previous management it had been a dimly lit, dusty place that attracted a clientele more likely to whisper in corners than to drink and make merry. All of which suited Aberforth just fine. He’d say, with a huff of a laugh and a shake of his head, that he was too old to be getting into bar brawls and contending with rowdy drunks. What he meant was that throwing drunken brawlers out of his door got dull fast, and he would much rather find his fights somewhere other than his own home. It disturbed the goats.

Aberforth had shooed the last handful of stragglers out the door in his customary manner- collecting all their glasses unannounced (and regardless of alcohol levels remaining) and threatening to dump them over whoever’s head he deemed the most offensive if they all didn’t scamper off sharpish- and with the pub therefore cleared, he was able to clean in peace. That it was still fairly early on in the night was irrelevant, it was his pub, he could close it when he liked, and regular customers learned that quickly and well. Dropping the glasses and mugs, all sticky with the residue of alcohol, on the counter, Aberforth moved around tables in an unhurried and practiced pattern, tucking in chairs and giving lopsided and scarred tabletops a cursory mop with a dishrag he had produced from his back pocket. The process was second nature, compounded habit of decades lending him the ability to tidy the room- as much as it ever was tidied- with muscle memory. He was just stepping around the bar to clean the dirty glasses when the door handle- notoriously squeaky and loose on its screws- was jiggled ineffectually. 

You’d think one of the layabouts he’d just ousted would’ve had the decency to take initiative and tell whoever the hell was standing on his doorstep that the place was closed when they crossed paths outside. Aberforth let out a sigh that implied, in its magnitude, that he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and took his time putting down the glass he was holding with a dull thud against the wood of the bar. “We’re closed! You’ll have to run off and bother some other poor bastard with the misfortune of serving the public their alcohol in exchange for you lots’ grubby coins.” As he spoke, voice raised loudly enough that he knew the person at the door would have no trouble hearing him, Aberforth walked out from behind the bar again and to the door, flicking his wand at it in a lazy unlocking charm as he went. “The Three Broomsticks’ll likely be more than happy to have you, they’re young little arses over there, open until the crack of dawn, but I’m old and would appreciate going to bed at a reasonable hour, so run along.” He tugged the door open and stood in the doorway, rag in hand, glower in place. 

“Shoo.” 

[macdonaldmr]

magical menagerie || open starter

Mary usually came to work early and stayed a little late. Not for the customers, really, but more for the animals. Working also always took her mind off the events unfolding around her. Things were getting dark quickly and Mary often times found herself lying awake, alone in her flat, feeling so anxious she almost couldn’t breathe. Magical Menagerie wasn’t her ideal job but she found that she loved it there just the same. There were a fair number of non-magical creatures. Cats, owls, rats. All good pets to accompany students off to start Hogwarts. They did keep some stranger animals, color changing rabbits, nifflers, streelers, puffskeins, some exotic types of birds. Mary hated the thought of them being cooped of up in their cages all day so she tried to spend a fair amount of time with each animal. They were living things after all, needed exercise and affection just like any human being would have.

That's how she ended up chasing Perpetua around late into the afternoon. The other shop girl had taken her leave for the day and Mary had decided to stay a little longer to tend to some of the older animals. Perpetua was a year old niffler with a particular disposition for making trouble (not unlike all nifflers, really). The little thing had been easy to handle thus far but had been extremely temperamental since her sister, Dory, had been sold a few days ago. Mary had tried to convince the buyer to take Perpetua as well, they were connected at the hip after all, but they had refused. Perpetua had been sad since then and it had broken Mary’s heart. Mary would never admit it to anyone but she had gone home that day and cried after seeing how defeated the poor niffler was. Mary had let her out for an opportunity to stretch her legs but Perpetua had immediately disappeared into the shop.

She had spent the last forty minutes trying to catch Perpetua but she remained elusive. After another ten minutes or so, Mary caught a glimmer of something shiny under one of the tables and didn’t even hesitate. Mary dove under the table, quickly snatching the small niffler who let out a noise of her obvious displeasure. “Oi, there you go you little trouble maker...” she said in a soothing voice, as she crawled out from under table with Perpetua in her arms, “I can’t keep letting you out love if you’re just going to run away from me.” Mary had been so distracted she hadn’t noticed the bell on top of the door chime signaling a customer coming in. Mary jumped at the sound of the person’s voice, getting to her feet, before turning around, “Sorry! I’ve been having a bit of trouble with this little one.”

[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.

[burningstarsirius-blog]

Sirius idly wondered how life had suddenly gotten so hellish, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette into an already fairly full ashtray. Just a matter of days ago, things had been relatively normal, at least as normal as they could be with the war going on. He’d mostly been busy with work and Order business, especially after the death of that Travers girl, but that had been easy compared to what was happening now. James, Regulus, Alice, and Edgar were all sick and no one seemed to know what had caused it. They weren’t the only ones, though, since the second floor of St. Mungo’s was also flooded with members of pureblood families Sirius least wanted to see: Blacks, Lestranges, and Zabinis, specifically. He couldn’t just sit by his friend’s bed side in peace, no, he had to dodge through that literal minefield of distant relations and people who either refused to acknowledge his existence or took it upon themselves to berate him openly and loudly about being a disgrace and a blood traitor, etc. At least he’d managed to avoid a confrontation with his parents, though they no doubt knew he was here by now, so it seemed inevitable. Sirius’ stomach dropped just thinking about it. He felt taut, like a string pulled too tightly, and he couldn’t afford anymore added tension or he just might snap. 

He’d managed to escape for the time being up to the fifth floor, the visitor’s tea room, and had settled in by a window. The tea at his elbow had long gone cold but he still sipped from it occasionally, when he wasn’t fervently chain smoking. Sirius was both exhausted and too wired to sleep, even up here keeping a watchful eye on anyone who came through the doors in case it happened to be one of the people he was trying to avoid. He’d already had a minor altercation with the Zabinis and was sure there would be more to come with others. If he hadn’t been so worried and in such a bad state already, he would have welcomed it. Sirius wasn’t usually one to shy away from a good shouting match with the many despicable members of the pureblood community but right now...right now it felt like too much. James was sleeping and his parents were too close to Regulus to visit him so now was as good a time as any to at least attempt to relax a little, though so far he’d been unsuccessful. Sirius refused to think of it as hiding, he was Sirius bloody Black and a Gryffindor so he definitely didn’t hide, but he was hoping for at least a few minutes of something close to peace. 

Apparently, he wasn’t about to get that as someone approached his table and he stiffened. Maybe he would get lucky and it would be someone who didn’t hate him. Given the way life had been going lately, however, he doubted it. 

[ladybellatricks]

Nothing Noticeable :: SILRP Starter

Bellatrix was seated in the window of Madam Puddifoot’s tea-shop, the smoky interior a pleasant and refined environment for watching the people go by. There were days when sitting alone in the Lestrange mansion left her feeling suffocated, the wait for evening and cloaked meetings stretching on far too long. It would begin to feel as if the marble fixtures and floors were rising up, closing in on her, the shadows playing tricks on her mind, dancing and taunting her endlessly. 

So she escaped to places like this, placing herself in the public eye, an intentional distraction, as she begged to be distracted. Today she sat framed by the window, as if the owners wished to say, “See who frequents our shop?” the young dark haired witch had plenty of glances sent her way as she took her afternoon tea. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence, but today it felt as if there were more than ever before. The Daily Prophet headlines practically dripped with blood in this new age, and confused children found themselves pressed close to their mother’s sides when they ventured out into public, tiny hands held in vice like grips as they walked through the streets. Bellatrix casually flitted back and forth between polite and refined smiles offered to her peers, and terrifying faces pulled at children when their parents weren’t looking. 

Setting her cup down and standing in one smooth motion, she left a polite tip for the timid witch clearing the tables, and exited the warm shop, entering the grey and muddy street. Stepping into the afternoon crowd, she heard her name float above the clamor, causing her to turn suspiciously, searching out the person to whom the voice belonged.

[painting-in-the-rain-blog]

Andromeda felt the need to get out of her family’s house.  While going to spend time with Ted was not an option, going window shopping in Diagon Alley was.  She was in no particular rush, but she was enjoying the freedom and time alone.  

She walked into the second hand bookshop, planning to see if a book she’d been searching had come in.  She walked among the tilting shelves, eyes scanning the titles, and not noticing the person she almost walked into as she rounded a shelf.

“Sorry,” she said instinctively, before changing her tone more icey and after a dramatic pause asking,”  Can I help you?”

[rabxlestrangex-blog]

Loitering about in the Ministry seemed almost masochistic to Rabastan. His brief stint in the Department of International Cooperation had more than made clear the fact that he was particularly unsuited for work in an office, and coming back to the Ministry only ever seemed to prove that point further. It wasn’t that he couldn’t manage the politics of the place, no, he could manipulate and charm with the best of them. But it had never seemed at all worthwhile or necessary to deal with the tedium of it all. As far as Rab was concerned, Rodolphus could defend the Lestrange interests from the belly of the beast, leaving him to grace the atrium’s gleamingly reflective tiled floor out of choice rather than obligation. 

The owl had arrived hours ago, but Rab figured that if the curse that had so utterly stumped the lot in the Improper Use of Magic Office was something time sensitive they ought to have indicated that on their letter. As much as he was disinclined to hang about in the atrium for longer than strictly necessary, neither was he incredibly keen to deal with a bunch of squalling incompetents. Especially while untangling a curse. Taking curse-breaking jobs for the goblins, or just private individuals, involved a lot less chatter. It was unfortunate the details sketched out in the owl he’d received promised such an interesting task, or he would’ve sent them off to find someone else to pick apart their puzzles.

His route, from the visitors entrance over to the elevators, was unnecessarily circuitous. Skirting deftly around the eddies of people headed in all directions, and the small clumps of people deep in conversation, Rabastan listened. People exchanged banal pleasantries, others talked business and politics. Still others exchanged whispers and speculations about the Travers murder, days ago now. Old history. Rab’s interest was indicated only by the slight slowing of his pace, and he slipped his hands into his pockets in the picture of idle unassumingness as he tailed the two women, their heads bent together as they spoke in breathless whispers. 

... They say it’s infighting... but what does that mean for everyone else?... horrible things, really, the papers didn’t report the half of it... one of my friends is an Auror, he said...

Nothing but hearsay and nonsense. Rabastan wasn't looking for information, not really, but he still experienced a detached sort of disappointment that the women had nothing interesting to say. Letting out a quiet sigh, he looked up from where he’d narrowed his eyes at the ground in wordless annoyance and caught sight of someone heading his way with just enough time to take a hurried step backwards and avoid a collision. “In a hurry, are you?”  

[theyrexeno]

An Apple A Day | Open

Clumps of wizards and witches and beings of a magical persuasion moved down the street with a purpose, traveling in tightly knit groups with eyes that conveyed a wariness and suspicion that Xeno supposed was warranted. After all, the whole world was on edge. There were whispers of pain and suffering and dangerous ideas, all of them fluttering about like they were infectious. Nargles, Xeno thought, absently, far more interested in the harried patrons of Diagon Alley than the complicated and messy war that made them that way. 

Curled up as they were in their open window, perched with one leg dangling a floor above the street of Diagon Alley, Xenophilius had an ideal vantage point from which to watch the shifting tides of the state of the wizarding world. It was also a lovely place to catch a rare beam of sunlight and nibble ponderously on the bag full of apples safely stashed on a pile of books next to the window sill. 

The sounds of an argument caught their attention, and Xeno leaned perilously far out the window to look, one hand clenched on the window frame as they twisted around. A group of people were gathered outside a potions shop just visible around the edge of the corner- a family, they figured, with a child being scolded, shamefaced but defiant. An idle smile flitted across Xeno’s face and they took another bite of their apple, unabashedly staring at the scene, the rest of the Alley momentarily forgotten. The scolding continued and from what Xeno gathered the child had wandered off and the parents were displeased. Little did they know that wandering off was the only way a child could hope to learn anything of importance in the world. 

It was then, engrossed in the happenings down the road, that Xeno leaned a bit too far out the window and began to slip perilously forward. “Merlin! fucking-”, and scrambling for purchase, they managed to grab the other side of the window frame with their other hand and heave themselves back onto their previous perch. They didn’t notice that they had, in the process of attempting to not fall out the window, dropped their apple until they heard the dull thunk of it colliding with something and reflexively looked down. 

“Oh.” Their apple had hit an unsuspecting passerby directly in the head. “Would you like a new one, I’ve got a bag of them here. Pink lady apples, you know, a favorite of cornish pixies. I think it’s the colour, makes a lovely contrast with their skin.” Xeno’s tone had shifted without warning from the panicked harshness of seconds earlier to something airy and amused, and they smiled down at the passerby as if this conversation were the most natural thing in the world. 

[vanciful]

The Grapevine || E & K

The redhead knew people. Had collected them up in the time that she had been hustling as a journalist. People of... questionable motives. Like Mundungus Fletcher without the kind streak. It rarely took much, a couple of drinks or a greasy palm and Emmeline had them singing about the things they’d seen, the people they knew. It wasn’t something she was proud of, her moral compass waving jaggedly as the galleon found its way into fist or pocket. But there were times that it was essential.

The grapevine was a source of ill-repute, but it had so transpired that a friend of a friend of a cousin of a friend had told her that this woman, whoever she was, was the very best potioneer this side of the Channel. When Emmeline had sent her first owl, she had told the woman so, had outlined that she needed some expertise and the woman seemed quite happy to accommodate. Emmeline could only anticipate what this potion mistress wanted in return.

The table felt sticky under her elbows as her blue eyes scanned the newspaper. Yesterday’s. Her comment on the recent lynching of a muggleborn was squished into a corner on page ten. Ho-hum. The Hog’s Head was as dead as Emmeline had expected, especially considering it was the middle of the week, though that hardly seemed to matter in Aberforth’s realm. It was always quiet. The door swung open and over the broadsheet, Emmeline’s gaze caught sight of a small woman, face a blank canvas. She was familiar.

The redhead tipped her wide-brimmed hat from her eyes. “Katherine,” Emmeline said, as the pieces of a puzzle Emmeline hadn’t known she was making fell into place. That Katherine. From Hogwarts, Katherine. It was a tangential acquaintance, and Emmeline wasn’t even sure they had ever spoken. But something caused Emmeline to sit up a little straighter, eyes turn steely. She had expected this potion’s expert to be older. Wizened.

“Thank you for coming.” Emmeline said as the witch approached the small table she had occupied, pressed up against the wall. Folding the paper she gestured to the bottle already sitting on the table. Scotch, smokey and sweet. “Whiskey?”

@madebybigshadows

[bad-boy-brody]

Brody generally tried to ignore reading The Daily Prophet these days. It was too full of obituaries, or at the very least, lists of the known dead and he heard enough about the dead both at work and at Order meetings. Death had become like a clinging fog that just wouldn’t go away, everywhere you looked there was more and more until it felt like you couldn’t ever be rid of it. When he was at The Three Broomsticks, as he was now, Brody didn’t exactly try to forget about the war, but he tried to think about it a little less. It wasn’t easy normally, but especially not when someone had left a copy of the The Prophet lying on the bar. It was impossible not to look with it so close by, though the cover and headlines were as dire as ever. Sighing, Brody pulled it closer and resigned himself to reading it, sipping at his glass of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. It didn't improve his mood, though reading the paper these days pretty much never did. More of the same. Fear, despair, sadness, even a little panic. It was hardly helping if a prominent newspaper was panicking but there was little that seemed to be able to help in these dark times. 

He read the whole thing, too stubbornly curious (or morbid?) to put it down but tossed it away in disgust when he was finished. Draining his current glass, he signaled for another one and turned to someone who had just approached. "Tell me something good. Or funny. Hell, even just normal. It has to be better than what I just read." It wasn't like he intended to get plastered, but Brody felt like he could use a little numbing from everything that was going on, not to mention a distraction. Whatever could engage his mind that wasn't related to current events, he'd be grateful for. "If you can make me smile, there's a drink in it for you." A little extra incentive never hurt.

[emmavanityxx]

Her feet hit the ground harshly, her every frustration channeling through in each step. Quidditch boys were all the same- their egos fed by the abundance of adoring crowds which filled the stands every time they flew in- countless witches and wizards utterly enamored with the sheer possibility of mingling among those who played for the once great team. In many ways, it made Emma wish she played for the Holyhead Harpies (the all-female team was bound to be less narcissistic). Sure, Emma owed her personal loyalty to the Cannons and not all her teammates were so self-seeking, but it was frustrating playing with a bunch of boys with no drive or ambition to win. She was over the self-absorbed players who cared far more about shirtless photoshoots in Seeker Weekly than actual practice, after all, a strong keeper and beater could only carry their team so far. “Just once I’d like to win a game with this team...” Emma muttered as she made her way down the street, “If only the others shared half my passion I’m confident we could actually be really successful.”