#amycusc

[giddy-prewett]

✉ amycus

Unsent: Have you happened to have heard of the knife game by chance?

Unsent: You take a knife in one hand and you put your other on the table. There’s this song you’re meant to sing and the point is to stab the knife between your fingers on the beats. Gets faster the longer you play. Doesn’t that seem odd?

Unsent: Fideon tells me I shouldn’t interact with you.

Unsent: Molly rocket yelled an incredible lot just now! You’re a bad person, you know. I don’t exactly condone what you’re up to either.

Unsent: Sometimes it’s easier to forget and remember we’re all people.

Sent: My readings lately have led me to the physics of the catapult. Not exactly knife throwing, but if I manage to put one together properly then other things could definitely be sent flying instead.

[goodnightgideon-blog]

cry, havoc

The Black Shuck, Raphoe, the Laggan, Ireland. 01:17AM, November 22nd, 1981 devoted-carrow​

Coinn lotair  was what they called them in these parts — the Hounds of Rage, growling masses of fur and teeth that stalked the ancient places of the world, the hunting dogs of Crom dubh. Raphoe was home to one of those too, perched on the summit of Beltany Hill, but the Beltany stones weren’t the reason he'd strayed to the Laggan, nor was the glowing cathedral determinedly lit up against the early hours of the morning, stained glass sparkling against the dim lights. There was a certain amount of irony to it’s location because Gideon could already hear the muffled riot of violins and laughter up ahead, seeping out into the night air around the faded edges of a muffling charm that the owner hadn’t renewed in a while. The Black Shuck was a Raphoe institution, a hell hound’s den of such ill repute that half the wizarding population of the town had been kicked out of it at least once and the other half regularly crusaded to have it shut down. 

It was a long way from Diagon Alley to come for a pint of guinness — he hoped the intel was worth it.

A black dog snarled down at him from the swinging sign overhead, creaking on the wind, and a roar of laughter rose up to meet him as he tugged open the black-painted door, the fire of his hair marking him a brother in arms before he so much as opened his mouth. It wasn’t his first time in the Laggan, but the last had been spent studying the runes engraved into the stones on the outskirts of town and drinking their guinness to riotous applause, not settling into a quieter corner of one of the shadiest pubs that Donegal had to offer with a pint, facing the door with his back against the wall and his wand gripped in one hand underneath the table.

He was early, but the rumors that swirled the streets regarding Janus were few and far between, his first real bite coming in the shape of cryptic messages that all pointed to here. They didn’t want to be found, but Gideon had always liked his puzzles, liked them better now that there was nothing but time and an itch for vengeance creeping through his bones. His eyes fixed on the snarling teeth of a carved figurehead, hoisted above the bar, and he took a long sip of the thick dark beer from his glass, the froth of the head tickling his nose. Black dogs. Grims. It would be a bloody miracle if this wasn’t a trap. 

The door swung open, a gust of night air admitting another late arrival and Gideon watched, thumbing the condensation off of his glass and watching intently as the shrouded figure lumbered his way. (Back table in the corner, don’t be late.)

Don’t be late. 

The sound of chair legs screeched across the sticky floors and Gideon looked up from his cursory study of his pint, knuckles grinding as he clenched at his wand beneath the table and locked eyes with the familiar face across the table. Oh, this would not end well.

“Are you lost, Carrow? That seat is taken.”

[bartcmius-jr-blog]

✉

Unsent: i wasn’t expecting that kind of laughter from you. It sounds good

Unsent: delilah rosier should understand what she is being allowed to put her hands on

Unsent: We may be partnered again. soon

Unsent: you looked really good in that suit. wasted on women

Unsent: If Regulus Black and Gilderoy Lockhart weren’t mine, Carrow

Sent: more. tomorrow.

[goodnightgideon-blog]

NAME GRAPHICS; From the Latin “Amicus” meaning, ‘Friend.” In Greek mythology, Amykos (Ancient Greek: Ἄμυκος), Latinized as Amycus, was the son of Poseidon and Melia. He was a boxer and King of the Bebryces, a mythical people in Bithynia. Polydeuces killed him in a boxing match when the Argonauts passed through Bithynia. { devoted-carrow }

[lavish-lucinda]

[lavish-lucinda]

Lucinda Talkalots Instagram- teens

@mrcarrow @ms-alectocarrow

[goodnightgideon-blog]

Nurse Me

devoted-carrow​ 

It’s a sea of polished manners and pretty smiles, robes tailored to match the seasons twinkling lights and rich greens and reds and golds and silvers; the scent of pine thick in the air over cinnamon-and-apples, hot cider and elf-made wine. There’s a pomp and ceremony to these gatherings, to every branch of every family ‘worth knowing’ conquering their own territory in order to pick at the offerings their host for the year has made.

Gideon doesn’t care much for apple cider but he has a bottle of Elf-Made Wine and Ogden’s Old tucked into either pocket as he shoulders his way out of the crowd, eyes on the designated escape route where Fabian leans with the world’s most conspicuous grin on his face. They’re seventeen, newly licensed and even their parents pretend not to notice when they head for the door.

Better their brand of trouble be contained by the elements than anyone’s drapery.

There’s a gaggle of younger kids in all their finery, resisting (for the most part) the urge to fling themselves headfirst into the snow that the twins wander out into, a careless disregard for the cold that comes with the mutual agreement to leave Molly and Arthur to their canoodling in corners (just this once) and they’re entirely too busy laughing over their score, jokes roaring thick and fast through the frozen air, to notice they’ve picked up a shadow.

It’s two hours later, when even the heat of Firewhiskey can’t drive back the cold and they’ve created crop circles out of the neighbours fields that they find him, a half-frozen, teeth-chattering seven year old whose hands and lips are already blue with the cold. There’s defiance written in his small face, in the set of pale eyes that unapologetically refuses to tell either of them why he’d followed them out into the storm.

Fabian grumbles about Carrows as Gideon crowds in, knocking the powder from small shoulders and crouching before him, snow melting through the knees of his uncomfortable robes and a wide, wild smile on his face that says ‘Watch this’ as he cups small hands in his own and turns them, palm up, to cup the sudden bloom of fire. It flickers, reflected in wide pale eyes, as colour blooms in the apples of the boy’s cheeks and the tip of his nose, and Gideon winks as he rocks back on his heels, pushing back to his feet. 

“To keep you warm.”

–

It’s a dark alley and he’s the definition of a bad idea; a refugee spat out of the billowing smoke and heat of battle, half drunk on the taste of his own blood forged like iron on his tongue and the direct shot of adrenaline that rattles his bones, rushing through his veins like he’s forgotten what fear felt like, what it sounds like, ringing in his ears. He’s a kite with it’s strings cut, battered by the changing winds and waiting for the fall, but there’s a liberation to an untethered existence (if liberation feels like suspended freefall.)

Clever, collected Gideon is a shadow, a whisper in his ear of a person who used to be, it’s instinct and armour that charts his course now. Do you see this, brother? This is the beast that war made; soot and sweat and blood and ash. 

Outside his shelter, a makeshift haven of crumbling brick, Diagon Alley is afire; the afternoon torn open with a blaze of curses that sing through the air from one, two, three sides (and not a single one among them to trust.) There are spiderwebs of cracks in the columns of Gringotts, white marble spilling across the cobblestones like a children’s game amidst the blood and the fallen and the crackle and pop of flames that hungrily devour the Apothecary two doors down (billowing flames that cloud the air, toxic and thick and combustible, that cling to the back of his throat as he stumbles hard, out of the path of a curse, orange and hissing in his ear).

Laughter and screaming and crying collide and combine in his ears, lost to the roar of the fire and the crumble of buildings, but this, this is the noise he hears; choked, wet — the snuffling, panicked gasps of a wounded animal. There’s blood on the soles of his boots, a dark, wet trail that slithers into the shadows at the back of his alleyway. It’s a black cloak and a discarded mask that cracks beneath the heel of his boot, a bone-white gleam ground into the dirt and the dark blood that pools outwards from the scrambling creature that’s painstakingly dragged itself out of the line of fire.

Amycus Carrow is a predator even now; bloody teeth bared in a snarl as his fingers dig deep into the wound that tears through his side, shaking hands smeared dark and wet with the blood he’s desperately trying to hold in. He’s a study in survival; clawing every painstaking inch of his way to some semblance of safety, and he can see the fear and defiance and rage burning behind pale eyes, rolled up to find him like he’s Death himself, panting like he might just find the breath to spit blood back at him; ask him what the fuck he’s looking at, but the truth pulses between his fingers, in the ragged, gasping breaths, IwanttoliveIwanttoliveIwantto—

It would be so easy. Gideon can see it in clammy pale skin and the vacancy sign that clouds pale eyes; it’s in the blood that slips freely between his fingers and blooms at the corners of his lips. Cursed, it said, as if that brutal kind of magic weren’t obvious in the greying tinge of his skin, the panic written in his eyes. A wand has fallen bloody at Amycus’s side. Gideon wouldn’t even have to touch him, he could just—

Leave? Walk away. There are others just like him lining the streets and crying for help, their hands clean, deserving of his time in their ticking clocks. How many notches on Carrow’s tally? How many? What has he done behind the security of a mask? It would be so easy. 

Amycus isn’t asking to be saved.

Nobody would know.

“What are you—”

— Waiting for?

There’s a square-jawed hero still buried somewhere in Gideon’s chest and Amycus isn’t the monster at the end of this story. (Survival is the cruellest fate he knows.)

Instead there’s blood seeping in through the knees of his pants, slick against the hard, biting cold of worn cobblestones and he crowds in until he can feel the ragged, shallow breaths expelled across his skin. There’s an intimacy to that stuttered breath between life and death and Gideon’s hands are built to break — they’re wide and large, fracture lines of tiny silver scars marring the pads of his fingers and palms from curses that had bitten back — his hands are tough and clever things, resourceful and quick, but they were never meant to heal.

Improvisation is his specialty.

“What are—”

There’s something manic in the bared teeth of his smile, in the brightness of his eyes that said death just might be kinder, his voice a foreign thing, conversational above the rasp that smoke has given it. “This is going to hurt.”

Flesh sears in the path of his wand, acrid smoke that burns through the curse that keeps his blood running, thin and pumping vigorously out of his body, and Amycus is gagging, choking, howling — fingers clawing into his arms like it might stop the fire but this is his gift; this is what survival looks like, this is what life feels like. 

The smell of burnt flesh lingers after the fire dies, wound cauterised and raw, and it’s all the mercy Gideon has left to give. 

[rewrittenmemories]

Rab, Reg and Amycus on an a evil excursion.