delacourtheo

[delacourtheo]

╳f e n r i r╳

     tormented  vision  peers  at  the  wolf,  and  they  recoil  in  his  hostile  gait.  his  charred  soul  belongs  to  the  embrace  of  AZKABAN;  where  the  thunderous  sea  blunders  the  hulls  of  fearsome  vessels,  devours  them  like  an  egregious  kraken  –  leviathan  of  the  black  salt  abyss.  he  nearly  collides  with  a  woman’s  stuporous  stride.  inhuman  reflexes  evade  her  dazed  exterior,  but  those  of  the  wizarding  world  can  decipher  her  lackluster  aura.  THE  LEAKY  CAULDRON  and  its  expectant  conclave  are  exchanged  for  stalking  shadows.

     a  corner  is  rounded,  leather  trench  coat  accompanying  the  motion  with  reactant  sway.  he  observes  the  spray  of  pink  mist  abscond  the  wounded’s  sputtering  mouth.  gaze  departs  from  the  veela  at  his  left.  the  predator’s  shoulder  melds  with  grotesquely  stained  brick  as  his  maw  parts  to  instigate  rhetoric.  ❛  got  yourself  into  trouble,  fletwick  ?  ❜  lips  draw  back  over  grinning  canines.  the  sight  amuses  him  –  it  isn’t  the  first  time  he’s  stumbled  upon  the  impulsive  culprit.

     dual  moons  have  transcended  since  he  last  scrutinized  the  ashen-haired  male  at  BORGIN  AND  BURKES.  newcomers  often  defined  spies,  often  put  a  crater  in  his  own  pack’s  scrupulous  itinerary.  and  credence  of  the  fellow  half-blood’s  presence  has  yet  to  be  sanctioned.  ❛  let  him  bleed,  delacour.  ❜  the  alpha’s  slate  gaze  narrows  in.  ❛  he’s  worth  nothing  to  all  sides  of  this  war.  ❜

        Wind catches in the leather tail of a very particular trench coat — like the taut lateen sail of a caravel fluttering on a turbulent sea — and suddenly, the alleyway’s privacy is forsaken. The impulse to apparate dissolves, his determination to leave this cobblestone narrow dirigible by the wolf’s sudden presence. How funny that a man with even a sliver of veela blood running like silver through his veins should find himself wavering at the whim or suggestion of another. His eyes trail upward from his limited vantage and inventory broad shoulders and the catenary of Fenrir’s bestial grin, gleaming pearly white.

        Théo’s head whips back toward Fletwick, following the gravelly trail of the alpha’s voice. Yellow hair is tucked behind his ear as he examines the sorry man’s state of being. His regal nose scrunches and cerulean eyes brim with water; the scene is offensive in every way. Puckered wounds haven’t gone sour, but the stink of perspiration and urine consume the foolish Death Eater. 

        A reaper is lingering close, a familiar vagrant, now, and his yawning mouth is limitless and unforgiving. Théo no longer fears it.

        “With that, I won’t argue.” As he stands, he re-evaluates the alley’s newcomer. The space between the present and their last encounter feels deep and wide. What manner of nightmarish things fell into such a chasm? “His life belongs to the Dark Lord.” His sigh is saturated with true disappointment. If he could kill the lot of them with one fell swoop —- The Veela’s calculating mind goes over the consequences of ending the man in cold blood, particularly if the werewolf is attempting to trip him up. “Unless you would do the honors.” A brow lifts along with the corner of bee-stung lips. 

Fletwick gurgles helplessly at their feet.

[delacourtheo]

░s░t░a░r░t░e░r░ ░c░a░l░l░

—- also would love some threads for this guy !! if you’d like a starter ( or to plot something ), please like this or send me a note. &&thank youuuu.

[delacourtheo]

↳ TASK 001. // word association ;

ROUGH: v a g r a n t HIDE: i n g l e n o o k FOOLISH: c o q u e t t e  SAD: s m o t h e r HATE: s e r p e n t LIGHT: r e d e m p t i o n DARK: r e f l e c t i o n MOTHER: e p i t a p h FATHER: s e v e r CHILD: d i s i l l u s i o n m e n t MARRIAGE: s i l v e r LOVE: i n c i p i e n t SOFT: g o o s e f e a t h e r s PET: c a r a p a c e DREAM: r e l i q u a r y DIVORCE: i n e v i t a b l e WATER: s i r e n LOUD: s a b o t e u r  ANNOUNCEMENT: s o o t h s a y e r POWER: h i d d e n FIGHT: r a p i e r  SMACK: t u m b l e  WHITE: d i v i n e SICK: s e e t h e KISS: f o r b i d d e n HUB: c a n d l e HURT:  s l o w l y HAPPY: e r s t w h i l e

[delacourtheo]

( * — bellatrix. )

—— There was a shift in the air, followed only by an uneasiness much too convoluted to describe. an abrupt silence reigned, one unlike the contemporary ambiance around these parts. time seemed to stop, the tips of its toes just a minimal number of millimeters away from a dangerous fall. if anyone would’ve asked her, she would’ve even said she spotted a nearby streetlight flickering. but that was just her. her eyes, however, constantly alert and in the pursuit of something alluring, turned vigilant – if this were a different hour, one would even say agog – as they scanned for the perpetrator of the strange metamorphosis.

     “ did you hear that ? ” for once, bellatrix wasn’t alone – a cohort stood by her sides, all of them oblivious to whatever the witch was referring to. “ don’t you dare call me crazy - i know what i heard, ” but perhaps it was too late for them to try to change her mind; her pace had picked up, as driven as ever, the rest of her colleagues now left behind. as she walked, even the smallest hint of light or softest sound caused her head to turn. 

    a murmur reached her ear, her eyebrows knitted. whatever it was caused her to fell slightly satisfied – after all, she’d been right. there was something –, but said feeling was quickly swept away as the woman emerged from the shadows and into the alley behind the leaky cauldron. her eyes widened, showing the most evident shade of bewilderment. her gaze met theodor’s, and right then, in a brusque tone, bellatrix asked: “  what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing ? ”

The death eater who lays dying against the exposed brick in the alleyway is wheezing, pools of vermillion seeping through the black threads of his robe — he’s wall-eyed and his mouth is moving as if words should be tumbling out, but nothing manifests but jabber and the click of his jaw. Théo’s attention is diverted and his eyes find Bellatrix; even her silhouette is familiar — the wild, unkempt curls, the long draping leaves of her dress dragging along the warbled path. He doesn’t expect to be scolded, but he knows what this looks like. It looks like treason. Still, he’s indignant. 

“Not that it’s any of your business, Bellatrix, but I’m trying to save this imbécile’s life.” He stands, his long legs extending with inherent grace. His wand is put away and his willowy arms are crossed over his chest in defiance. “He attacked a muggle-born witch outside of the pub and was, unsurprisingly, bested by her.” He kicks the quivering figure and the dying man slumps over, his yellowing eyes flickering closed when a lance of pain seizes him. “If he hadn’t cocked it up so much, I might be in more of a hurry to get him to a healer. Pathétique.” His lip curls with distaste.

Slate blue eyes level on the woman, her family name almost as oppressive as her presence; a great pregnant cloud hanging overhead. While Théo normally relies on his charm to smooth out ruffled feathers, Bellatrix doesn’t work that way — he can tell by the errant flash in her eye, the madness blooming like some flower behind them. So, he engages her with his own tempered rage, so often bottled and shelved. “His sort might better serve the Dark Lord dead. Wouldn’t you agree, ma dame de maison noire?” His threat causes the man to retch. The contents of his stomach mix with the red of his insides on the gray cobbles. 

[delacourtheo]

The woman wilts like a lifeless violet as the chambers of her mind are flooded with obfuscating magic —- her blue eyes dim, her mouth falls agape, and her breathing slows to a dangerous pace. The nuances of her memory are gently coaxed into the dim corridors of her mind and the heavy velvet curtain of forgetful bliss is drawn back. The mind-addled woman disappears ( oblivious and smiling ) back into the pub. His work is done. A vine wood wand retreats into the cover of its master’s cloak, and the double-agent turns his attention away. 

Tucked neatly into the alley behind The Leaky Cauldron is the figure of the man who initiated the attack: a brazen and foolish accosting of a muggle-born wizard just outside The Leaky Cauldron. Despite his impetuous actions, he has the gaul to glare at Théo for interfering —- his skin has the pallor of a sick moon from loss of blood and his eyes are sunken and hateful. It’s obvious that the vicious spell the woman used against him has left him lingering at death’s moribund door —- Théo knows how to reverse the damage, but he doesn’t lift his wand to help. Should the foul bastard bleed out in the alley, there would be one less shadow in the Dark Lord’s growing phalanx of foot soldiers. 

“You’re hasty,” Théo imparts softly, his voice even with feigned indifference. “Picking fights with muggles outside the Leaky Cauldron won’t get you the recognition you so desperately desire from the Dark Lord.”

“You know nothing of the Dark Lord’s desires, half-blood —-” The insult is cut short by a guttural explosion of coughs. Specks of blood slick the cobblestone.

“Insult me again and I’ll finish the witch’s work.” 

Théo prepares to apparate with the wounded and disagreeable figure, but the hollow knock of footfalls echoes and stops him in his tracks.

[delacourtheo]

grey again. this is my other dingus, théodor delacour, whose name, i realize, makes him sound like a fairytale poof ( and maybe that’s not far off idk ) —- but he prefers théo. he is a spy for the order of the phoenix and an obliviator. he’s also part veela. this was a point of contention on the main, so, if you’re wondering —- his father was apolline’s brother-in-law. meaning the delacour brothers both married veela women. * vague shrug *

** IF YOU’RE INTERESTED IN WRITING WITH ME OR CAUSING TROUBLE WITH THÉO, PLEASE HIT ME UP !!

* △ — the dark lord has targeted [ THÉODOR DELACOUR ] !  the muggles say he holds resemblance to [ AUSTIN BUTLER ]. the [ TWENTY-FIVE ] year old [ MALE ] was [ ARDENT & REVOLUTIONARY ] before the war, but have now become [ WILLFUL & UNFORGIVING ]. though they were once a [ STUDENT OF BEAUXBATONS ], they have now taken up the position of an [ OBLIVIATOR ]. whispers throughout the ministry claim that the [ HALF-BLOOD ] is actually [ A SPY FOR THE ORDER ], but i wouldn’t report that to the daily prophet. 

( A E S T H E T I C )

looms of spider-silk weave glimmering in golden light, the thrum of cello strings, foreboding and beautiful, deep like a thicket. wooden floors and open windows, sheet music and pressed shirts. the flutter of yellowed pages turning in the airy rooms of rural france. masterful silence, peaceful and balanced. a mother’s gentle spirit, a sister’s yellow curls —- and the bitter sting of their violent end by a marked one. bloody ends of blonde hair and blue eyes turning dim as life is stolen. a father’s eventual madness and a son’s promise for vengeance. he is sleepless nights and untouched cups of steeped tea, forgotten, growing cold. he is endless pacing and quiet deliberation, stubborn allegiance and persuasive tact. magnetic smiles and charming words, silver tins filled with herbs, lavender, and scratching quill. black umbrellas, immaculate white t-shirts, silver rings, and untrimmed hair. venom and honey, vendettas and confessions of loyalty. chiseling away at a porcelain mask.

( P A R T I C U L A R S )

✗. patronus: impala. ✗. wand: vine, phoenix core, 12 inches, supple flexibility. ✗. amortentia: rosin & old books & wood shavings & dry dirt ✗. height: 6′. ✗. sexuality: homo-romantic / homosexual. ✗. house: beaubatons school ( possibly ravenclaw or hufflepuff ) ✗. boggart: losing himself in a lie.

( H E A D C A N O N S )

i. an exceptionally gifted cellist, it was his mother’s dream that he would play on the finest stages in the world. since her death, he has only cradled his instrument in his arms once or twice —- it’s only when he’s most numb, most removed from the grief, that he’s able to indulge himself in the low, visceral strains of his music.

ii. the most difficult facet of his immaculate lie is that he had to appear implicit in the death of his mother and his sister and, later, was directly responsible for the dismissal of his father from his life. he wonders if vengeance is worth it, but he can serve no other agenda. 

iii. his way into the dark lord’s world was by seduction alone. using gifts of his veela heritage, he was able to manipulate an older man into a dubious relationship. his pureblood, high social status, and connections within the notorious elite of voldemort’s inner circle were advantageous to him and to the order. théo isn’t necessarily proud of his lie, but he doesn’t think about it too much. his head is in the game.

iv. théodor’s younger sister, isador, died right in front of him. she haunts most of his nights with visions of her yellow hair matted with blood, so he brews potent sleeping elixirs that ensure he sleeps like the dead.

v. his true disposition isn’t always clear; he spends a lot of his time molding his identity to mirror others or affecting an air of easy charisma. he carries it off thanks to his veela blood, but inside, there is a constant, metamorphosing storm. rare are those that see him in his truest manifestation as he often feels like he doesn’t know himself. 

vi. being a veela is very difficult for him because people inherently distrust his motives. this projection is something he internalizes and it has begun to bruise his ego and self-esteem.

TBC.

[delacourtheo]

[delacourtheo]

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire ~ JK Rowling

[delacourtheo]