#strvngemagic

[priorireverte]

hi! i was wondering if y'all would be interested in having a sybill trelawney. no worries if not, though, i would def apply for a character on the masterlist instead! :)

Any character is welcome, though as with all characters that don’t already have a skelebio, I’d want to hear more about what the character would bring to the world and the plot, how they would relate to it and integrate into our story here. Feel free to come talk to me in DMs if you’d like about your ideas.

But in the grander, abstract way, I think we would be excited to have any character you want to bring.

[moodyparis]

❝ i feel like you’re dragging me down with you. ❞ - molly

paris’ lips twitch, just slightly upwards, in the hint of something. not a smile, not even a smirk. fascination, agreement, confusion, anger - it could have been anything. in reality, it’s just satisfaction. satisfaction that someone is thinking of her, thinking anything. scared, worried, it doesn’t matter - she’s on molly’s mind, in a way that makes her more powerful than actually dragging her down would be. “am i?” she leans closer, lets a smile roll around her mouth, only to be replaced with a challenge, a dare, something that begs molly to reveal herself, without paris ever having to open her own mind, her own soul to being read. she knows damn well molly’s not about to stray, not about to do anything foolish, and yet, she can’t help herself but let her tongue dance over her teeth in a testing sort of smirk. she cannot help herself but flirt, not when it’s something she’s so good at. “and where am i dragging you, exactly? hell? or somewhere a little more... fun?”

[aarlingtons]

"betrayal" + selene

it feels rather as though he’s been shot. a slug right to the stomach. not the heart, not the head. those would be too simple, too direct. a sawn-off shotgun pointed right at his belly and fired. once, twice maybe. a spray of pellets. it feels like being torn, ripped open. muggle weapons have a blunt, indelicate way of dealing out pain that magic lacks. there is nothing elegant about the way she appears to him now. nothing mystical or whimsical about the truth she is part of. “so. it’s all just a lie? nothing is true - none of it?” he’s disgusted, and he may be an actor, but there is nothing hidden in his voice now. nothing false. this is, perhaps, the closest he’s ever come to pure hatred. the words feel like rot as they cascade from him, and it’s wrong, but it is true. it is what she has earned from him, after all of this. “fuck you, selene. you are so, so much worse than even you think you are. and i know you hate yourself. i can see it.” he doesn’t know if he’s right, but it feels right. she must hate herself. she has to, if she’s still human. “i can see all of it, now. all of you. and you’re nothing but a sick, pathetic coward. and your hand is in all of it. every single part of that evil - you did it. you let it happen. you disgust me.”

[metcllics]

'You’re still awake?' - prue & molly

     sleep evaded her most nights, it was easier to busy her brain until her lids became heavy. she simply felt, off. the witch was hunched over her cauldron, lazily stirring the liquid as her eyes zoned out the window. the stars twinkling as prue looked for whatever constellation she could find. while she usually welcomed the silence with open arms, today she felt different. hearing her cousin’s voice prue’s head all but whipped around to meet it. ‘ hey, ’ a bit of a smile tugging at her lips. ‘ been awake for who bloody knows how long. working on a sleep draught before i start gettin’ a bit delusional. ’ prue shifted in her seat so she wasn’t straining her neck to look at molly. ‘ got a bit more to go though, what are you doin’ up ? need a little sip yourself ? because i’m all for sharing, ’ she chuckled as her hand motioned for molly to join her.

[unchosensarchive]

WHO: rolf and astoria / @strvngemagics​

WHERE: st. mungo’s hospital.

Rolf didn’t think much of St. Mungo’s, but then again, he had never liked being confined. It was too brightly lit, too unnatural, sterile. His window, he had seen, looked out onto a dazzling view of a mountain side, but it was false, stilted. An enchantment. It was no doubt meant to ease his mind and distract him from his pain. He supposed it had, in a way. He’d been stuck thinking about its very falseness for hours now. Better that than replay the attack again and again. Luna’s pain, as he did nothing, could do nothing, to save her or their home. He would, he thought, be grateful for any distraction from that, but if there was something Rolf would feel ashamed of later, it was that he flinched when Astoria entered his room. There had been part of him that simply thought, Hermione is gone, the Ministry is falling, my home was invaded, my wife almost killed, and wondered, where she had been in all of that, situated as she was so powerfully in the Ministry, so powerfully amongst all those families they suspected.  

It pained him to entertain suspicion, especially about a friend, but it had been there, an instinct that felt contrary to everything Rolf was. But maybe he was growing new instincts, finally, even if it had taken almost dying to do it. Somehow he didn’t like the thought, smoothing out any doubt in his expression by force. Astoria was a friend. “It’s kind of you to visit. I’ll be out of here soon, most likely. I’m glad of it. I know they need me out there.” His tired expression was clouded by growing fear. “Just as we all need you at the Ministry. You may even be our last hope.” Difficult to admit that, that right now he felt like almost all hope was gone. He’d never felt like that in his life, or at least not for many years. “Astoria, please, tell me. What’s happening? You must know. All I hear is that friend after friend is being called in...” He could do nothing here, and worse still, Rolf thought he could probably do nothing if he wasn’t here, either. It wasn’t only the feeling of safety in his own home that had been destroyed, but the illusion that he could do anything to fight.

[aarlingtons]

❝ that wasn’t meant for you. ❞ - selene

he’s not sure what to make of it - not sure, really, what to make of selene at all. she’s always evaded him, his understanding. once, ajax had thought he could read people pretty well. good or bad, interesting or boring, polite or genuine... but the longer the war stretches on, the harder it’s becoming. he looks at her, probably for a few seconds too long, trying to work out a response. slowly, his trademark grin fades, until his face is serious. it’s not an expression he’s used to. “okay,” he says it slowly. like she’s testing him. a small frown crinkles between his brows. concern. for her or for hiself, he’s not sure - the former, probably. he’s never been great at self-preservation. “and if it was meant for me - i mean, if you were going to say something, to me, for me - what would it be? how different would you make it?” he’s not sure even what he’s saying. ajax laughs at his own idiocy, and looks down. “jesus. you’re confusing, you know that? i can’t work you out, not for anything. i feel like - and i know this is rich, coming from me - i feel like you’re always putting on an act. so just be real with me, for a minute. if it wasn’t meant for me, then what was meant for me?”

[moodyparis]

"trail" + molly

molly’s fingers are smooth, delicate - a far cry from molly herself: a firebrand, a rebel, all burning anger and purpose. the thin line that dances its way up paris’ arm is by no means ugly, but it stands in opposition to all that she is. it’s a million miles from perfect porcelain, unbreakable beauty, from simplicity and from icily carefree ease. her skin twitches beneath the touch. but paris will not budge from her demeanor: she will ooze only cockiness and charm, not disappointment, not a hint of pain, not a hint of disgust or contempt. “just like yours, huh?” she grins, and once again, it’s an unfamiliar thing to be this close to comforting someone. it’s still hidden behind a million-muscle-smirk, and layer upon layer of plausible deniability, but it hides there and it gnaws. “they really shouldn’t let fifteen year olds anywhere near alcohol. or, y’know, other substances.” she lets molly stare at the thing as long as she wants to, not allowing herself to think too hard on how annoying it is that no matter how hard she tries, no matter how much effort she puts in, the damn scar will never be gone. how stupid she was, at the time, to reject magical healing. all as part of the joke, all as part of the pointless, worthless rebellion. “nothing more than a broken bottle and a bit of teenage idiocy.” she explains. “hardly dark magic. it’s a little disappointing, really, isn’t it?”

[moodyparis]

date: november 1st, 2029

where: st. mungo’s hospital [ft molly weasley ii @strvngemagics​]

there’s a knot in her neck from the weight of heaving molly’s limp form around, and from the stiff, unyielding chair she fell asleep on. paris moody is not the kind of woman who falls asleep in hospital chairs. she is not the kind of person who saves another’s life, not when the situation would put her at risk. but she’s done both those things, now, in the space of just a few hours. remember it’ll be worth it, she reminds herself to cool down. you saved a weasley’s life. that’ll be worth something, in the months to come. she left the room only when the family arrived. she knew them all from childhood. she wonders, with the hint of a smirk, if they’d be disappointed in her now. disappointed in her lack of desire to fight. it’s pragmatic, she might tell them. my family lost so much skin. why should we lose more? the sight of molly crumpled, the sight of her in the hospital bed, future uncertain - life uncertain - solidifies that. but it also makes paris wonder who she might have been, had she chosen a different path.

she’s back in the room, now, leaned up against a window, staring at her nails. she doesn’t dare look at the bed again. “you’d better wake up soon, sweetheart. work’s going to be a shit show, and i’d really love a shower before i get there.”