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ARCANE - 1.03 The Base Violence Necessary for Change

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Lila all but curled away from the candlelight like those red waves had been replaced by a thatch of devil's snare. The shadows at Grimmauld, no matter how much the house had changed or the time of year, drew long in its cavernous bowels. Crossing the threshold had always felt to Scorpius a little bit like wandering into an ancient set of jaws on a good day; the fireplace felt more immediately like being consumed and then spat back out than even Borgin & Burkes.

No confundments, or blows to the head apparent. He noted, as the deep black of his best friend's pupils greeted him by shrinking obligingly as he prompted them to, the first of good signs. The magnifying lens of healing was firmly in place leaving the rest of the information to gather later: blood seemed to be diverting swiftly away from the cranial region, leaving Lily a rather peculiar greyish pallor beneath the freckles, the tone almost purpling. Fucking delightful. He arced his wand into a more persistent diagnostic charm, considering Polats were about as forthcoming as your local erumpent.

"I always have an audience now." He quirked one brow, feigning booming over a large crowd in a stage whisper, "Are you not entertained!?" Scorpius asked the nonplussed daemon at their feet, who simply rolled her eyes at him. What a funny way to talk about the manifestation of his own soul, if Cleo had always been with him just not with such a mouth on her or the ability to steal his toast in the morning, hadn't they always? But he wasn't yet tired enough to think that it'd help his point with either of them.

Against the powers of their nagging combined he'd never stand a chance, a fact that was becoming more apparent the longer Lily and Cleo spent time together.

Gross motor functions retained, some difficulty overcome by patient focus. The rattle of china in her palms. The entire way she's sitting, tenderly, as though trying not to curl around the wound that's eating at her like candle-flame licking the centre of dry parchment. He sighs, long and weary. "This is going to hurt." In his head he calls her a daft cow because he's so very tired and Lily argues more easily than she breathes. Scor thinks of the Whiskey Irish Cream sitting in the cupboard in the kitchen and taps his wand to the brim of her mug to give a generous splash of it. "I've got to siphon by eye and you telling me how it feels or it'll just reopen and then we'll never get the veinous splatter out of the pile of the Persian rug."

"I think sometimes when you're here and you promise it, you do actually mean it; then you step out there, you stop." He gestured flippantly with one arm as he unrolled the mobile apothecary kit from his hip with the other, a pathetically small amount of dittany was allotted to each healer and he'd learned creative ways to stretch the stuff as the battles raged on. Scor smiled at her, the lines pulled tired around his eyes. "S'ok, we all lie now, even if we don't mean to."

Lila watched through half-lidded, chestnut eyes as Scorpius checked her pupils with the candlelight, fighting the urge to flinch away from his careful examination. It was almost uncomfortable being held up to the light like this—a strangely vulnerable feeling that made her want to crawl out of her own, freckle-dusted skin. The candlelight felt too bright, too exposing in the dim of night.

Her mother always said her eyes gave everything away, that they held the same fire as her father's—burning too bright, too fierce, too ready to sacrifice everything for others. Perhaps that's why she couldn't quite meet her friend's gaze now. Could he see her? Really see her, past all her carefully constructed walls, past the brave faces and sharp smiles? Could he see the cracks inside her, how darkness had started to consume her from within, the way she'd begun to welcome it? And if he could—if he could see all of that, all her repulsiveness—why was he still here?

"I didn't realize we had an audience," she muttered, trying for lightness as Cleo circled them anxiously. But her attempt at humor fell flat, broken by a sharp intake of breath as another wave of pain radiated from her stomach. The venom from the curse still burned through her veins like liquid fire, making her head swim with memories of that suffocating darkness. Of fighting blind, of healing her attacker's wounds while her own still bled. Why hadn't she tried to heal herself first? Was there something in her that wanted it—that sweet release of death? That refused to stop chasing after it, night after night, duel after duel? "Suppose I can't sneak anything past your kit these days. She's like a bloodhound, that one."

She reached for the tea with trembling, pallid fingers, more to have something to do with her hands than any real desire to drink it. The familiar scent—too hot, exactly how Scorpius always made it—helped ground her in the present moment, pulling her back from the edge of those memories she'd rather forget. The mug warmed her ice-cold hands, reminding her that she was here, she was alive, she had survived. Again.

"I had it under control," she said softly, though they both knew it for the lie it was. Her stomach wound spoke otherwise, as did the way her hands shook around the mug, the unnatural pallor of her skin beneath its constellation of freckles. "Really, Scor. It wasn't—" She broke off as Cleo's paw tapped against her shoe again, a gentle reminder that she wasn't fooling either of them. The kit had always seen right through her masks, just like her owner. "Okay, fine. Maybe it got a bit dicey towards the end. But I handled it, like I always do."

She didn't tell him about waiting in that suffocating darkness, trying to heal the wraith while her own blood pooled beneath her, the copper scent making her dizzy. Didn't mention how the Unbreakable Vow had felt like it was strangling her, how she'd almost welcomed it—like maybe this was what she'd been looking for all along when she made that vow. Not redemption, but punishment. Not protection, but permission to let go. Didn't speak of how the darkness had clawed its way inside her chest, leaving her feeling hopelessly, helplessly alone, wondering if this was how her father had felt in his final moments.

Instead, she focused on the steady movement of his hands as he worked, the familiar comfort of his presence beside her. It was almost like being back at Hogwarts, when everything was simpler. "Thanks," she whispered finally, the word catching in her throat like a confession. For the tea. For not telling her mum. For understanding why she couldn't stop fighting, even when it might kill her. For being here in the dead of night, patching her up without judgment. For seeing her at her worst and staying anyway. "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I promised to be more careful next time?"

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Lily

 ❧ how does your muse view their mother ?  

beautiful, strong, vulnerable. mortal. snatches of memory, an eloquent voice reading to him as he fell asleep. a tether, grounding, her slim hands with perfectly manicured half-moon nails, the glittering shimmer of her intricate, interwoven engagement and wedding bands firm and soothing around his biceps. breathe, my darling. smoothing his dress robes, the stubborn tufts of his hair, soft lips at his temple.

the curve of her cheek turned up against the sky amongst the grass, rapidly turning grey. a debt never to be repaid.

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Christa Wolf, from “Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays”

Florence and The Machine, from “Cassandra”

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bay tree :   does your muse seek glory   &   accolades ,   or do they favour a simpler ,   more personal life ?  

❧ - BAY TREE

Innately, Scorpius pursues knowledge out of curiosity and a simple love of fucking around and finding out but very early on he garnered a proclivity to show off at things he had a natural affinity for because both sides of the old war, to put it lightly, had grievances with the Malfoys.

It wasn't outright, his parents were unlearning all of the awfulness they endured being raised the way they had and teaching him well but Scor was simply too empathetic not to notice it, nor as poised or graceful as his mother at deflecting it. He would bristle every time.

It fuelled a spite-filled urge from deep in his gut that has propelled him to this day, though inherently the work for him is the point: showing off and getting accolades is certainly an enjoyable side benefit to rub it in the nose of anyone who ever prayed on his downfall.

In actuality, he would prefer a completely quiet, simple life but if people already know him, already have eyes on him anyway for good or for bad, he figures he might as well be a little bit ostentatious with it.

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lavender :   how easy is it to gain your muse’s trust ?  once their trust is broken ,   how might one go about mending it ?  

❧ - LAVENDER

Scorpius has inherently kept people at arms' length most of his life, though traditions have changed for the better he still has the thoroughbred stiffness of a pureblood and finds closeness, though he yearns for it, a difficult thing to grapple with and something impossible to ask for.

He finds himself surface level implying a level of trust toward others that perhaps he doesn't always feel, even if they've earned it. He's working on it. Though Scor feels lucky, it could be worse, his family name brings with it a host of implications that often colour his interactions before he has a chance to open his mouth. He was once attacked on a night out in Diagon Alley which did nothing to aid his frankly, paranoia, about people wishing harm to his family.

Scor takes a long time to forgive yet will never forget. He advises people that forgiveness is a virtue and more for yourself than the other person, in practice he loves his grudges: he tends to them like little pets.

In all seriousness, he finds connecting with others easy but utterly overwhelming and when people break his trust his mind cannot stop gnawing on it, turning the problem over and over to find another edge that cuts even if he wants to stop.

Showing up for him counts, how long the bitter frost lasts depends entirely on the severity of the transgression.

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  𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓾𝓵𝓮𝓽      …     twenty-six, healing student, knights 2ɪᴄ, 𝖌𝖆𝖜𝖆𝖎𝖓.

[ PINTEREST ]

makes you think of ... the stillness of the world the moment you take the first step into fresh snow, cashmere & fine wool brushing the inside of your wrist, the pearlescence of dreamless sleep draught, the scratch of a quill on parchment, faintly tremoring fingers, draping yourself dramatically onto the sofa like a fainting couch, a shiver up your spine in a warm room, the exhilaration of a problem solved, chin up high as your heart beats out of your chest, a thunderous grey overcast sky, the bite of a stitching charm, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, petrichor, the burn in your eyes before a well of tears, the long victory even if it takes years of late nights and sore bones.

always a riddle in the world, she said.

FULL NAME: Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy GENDER: shrug | he/they AGE: Twenty-six BIRTHDATE: January 20th PARENTS: Draco Malfoy & Astoria Malfoy (née Greengrass) Adopted

always a riddle inside your head.

BIRTHPLACE: St. Mungo’s Hospital, England HEIGHT: 5’11” WEIGHT: 56 kg ATTRACTION: Demiromantic Bisexual NATIONALITY: British MARKS: A ragged diamond shape scar at the base of his throat that almost looks opalescent in some lights.

always a thing to wonder the way we come to be.

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood HOGWARTS HOUSE: Slytherin WAND ARM: Right PET: A crested toad named Jarvis (IV). PATRONUS: Arctic Fox WAND: 11 2/3 inches, Willow, Supple, Dragon Heartstring.

Willow is an uncommon wand wood with healing power, and I have noted that the ideal owner for a willow wand often has some (usually unwarranted) insecurity however well they may try and hide it. While many confident customers insist on trying a willow wand (attracted by their handsome appearance and well-founded reputation for enabling advanced, non-verbal magic) my willow wands have consistently selected those of greatest potential, rather than those who feel they have little to learn. It has always been a proverb in my family that he who has furthest to travel will go fastest with willow.

TRAITS: brilliant, innovative, empathetic, magnanimous, resourceful, loquacious, conscientious, adaptable, fair, individual, inventive, logical, diligent, over-intellectualizes emotions, dismissive, anxious, crotchety tempered, capricious, stubborn, facetious, rigid, prone to self-isolation & intellectual arrogance.

revontulet, which literally translates to “fox fire.” legend says that an arctic fox dashed across the tundra swiping snow up into the sky, while others claim his bushy tail caused sparks when brushing the peaks of tall mountains to create the aurora borealis.

[ parental death cw, substance abuse cw ]

I.

Centuries of tradition manifest, Malfoy Manor in its cold glory leaning in around you like a protective set of gnashed teeth has always been your home. Every first conscious memory is of your mother's smile above you and the kindness in your dad's hands. Consequence and penance aren't concepts you're privy to, not yet, they patiently explain every 'why' and 'how' question you fire off as soon as you get your clever tongue around the syllables; feeding your mind whenever it leaned helplessly toward knowledge like a plant toward the sun.

There was a warmth to the place, thick piled rugs and less oppressive air of rank fear and misery, more delicious cooking smells with whatever bounty had been harvested from the walled gardens for the vases that day. Your memories are of falling asleep high in the boughs of a weeping willow, dipping its thin tresses into the clear brook far below, its susurration lulling your eyes closed. Reading in high-backed armchairs in the library swaddled in furs, your mother's wand refilling your hot chocolate every two hours.

No blood varnishing the lacquer in the dining room, or the afterimage of torment ringing in the main hall.

Though sometimes late at night something ancient makes your teeth ache, and you wake up with your heart in your molars as something huge and without limbs propelled itself through your dreams across the floor in the hall into your waking thought.

Altan's knee pressed alongside yours on the stairs in Grimmauld Place, grazed by the escalating antics that only a house full of siblings could bring. One small hand of yours feels magnetized, warm and almost singing. When you bring those digits away the sluggishly bleeding mark is gone, your grin crooked and shining.

It isn't always so easy, for you. Ministry functions, grown-up family events filled you with dread and boredom. That incessant buzz of a hundred souls swarming around you, their emotions striking up the broad side of you like you needed wards to help you from absorbing it all. Taking up the pigmented hue of feeling like watercolour, the blues running and running no matter how hard you tried to stay in the lines.

When you were eight you got caught owling multiple senior mediwixen at the best institutions across Europe to ask their professional opinion, on how best to seal up your tear ducts when you finally got your wand.

II.

School is everything, the anticipation makes you glow and flicker in equal measure. A place dedicated to learning... Leaving the only home you'd ever known. You're more fully formed, finally, smart-mouthed but still caring, an uncanny wiseness to your smallness, a voracious appetite for knowledge.

Slytherin. The old thing so torn between the incessant questions you fired and the pure unbridled entitlement driving behind it that you stalled it for a minute and a half. You're not sure if your parents are surprised, your letter reaches them first thing September 2nd.

Since the world got bigger and you could no longer cinch your fingers tight in your mother's skirt and hide behind her leg; you'd always lived with some great yawning fearful dread, feeling on the precipice of something terrible that had your stomach heaving great swoops of vertigo at random times as though your body could prepare you.

You realise on your knees in the garden, on your knees in the blood, the blood that will feed the grass and make it grow; when the forget-me-nots open in the spring because time won't listen to your grief you'll lie in the shape they make in the dearth of her and pretend. Pretend. You realise, on your knees in the garden, you will never be ready when the other shoe drops.

The birds in the distance hadn't even stopped singing, only a lone Jobberknoll had flapped its wings out of the closest oak. The orangery stained glass hadn't shattered, rainclouds hadn't drawn in, there had been no accompanying swell of heartrending orchestral music. Just her absence, the absence of life stark against the world already moving on without her and how she didn't make sense in it anymore.

What happened? Tell me, what happened!

You don't speak. For a week, two. You can't, it isn't true. It isn't until Lila has to wrap her arm across your shoulders and help you duck away from the Shrivelfig planters in the greenhouses the first time you see Thestrals breach the canopy of the Forbidden forest. At heart you're a scholar, the hard evidence makes your chordae tendineae fray, near snap like broken piano strings.

What you'd dreamed of your whole life lands neatly in your lap. Apathy, curled around you like a familiar cloak. Standing three feet behind and one step to the left of yourself preparing for your OWLs, physically you were where you'd always been at Hogwarts, stepping carefully in the footprints of the boy you were a year ago, the boy as dead as his mother.

Your mind is keen still, the part that categorizes data is still working the auxiliary systems. Quill to parchment, nose in a book. Your father needs you, you need each other. Your grip on him now, like iron. If you puppeted things just right you could have the right to be indignant if anyone called you on it, even if they saw you with cleaner eyes than you'd ever caught through a glimpse of yourself in any mirror. Even if they saw how you wore yourself like an ill-fitting coat, as though old boots pinched your soul too tight.

III.

Prefect. Quidditch Commentator. The work. Make sure dad eats, forget to eat yourself. Take dreamless sleep draught to rest, repeat.

You've got some colour back of your own now, you can feel it again but you distract yourself with never pausing for a moment, never sitting still with the grief that creeps sluggishly toward you. You work like it's chasing you, like the world's slowest wild hunt could crawl into the dungeons at any moment but, you know. You know that you can't run from something that originates from you, deep in the pit of your belly, dark and knotted against your ribs.

You're so blinded by your petty teenage troubles and your own eclipsing darkness that the world starts to slip, outside your window. The careful cradle of post-war prosperity, the previous reform of the ministry. The shadows start to creep back into frame.

You know what is right, you've always known it. Your friends are good for you, bringing you a self-assuredness that didn't come naturally. You'll fight for it, die for it. You aren't a natural dueller but your defensive charms are incredibly strong, your potioneering knowledge even more so, poisons and venoms develop into careful weapons. Non-lethal and terrible.

You staunchly oppose the resurrection. Watching the ever-present spark in Lila's eye turn flinty in shock. Everything in you, fibre to your bones rails against it, is it because you've finally grown accustomed to the howling grief, just got it to quieten? Jealousy? Guilt? You dig your heels in, it's so rare that you rise to occasions but the only way the other Knights were wresting this snake was to cut off your head.

IV.

You nearly lose your apprenticeship developing the modified patronus charm, passing out at your desk in the labs. You are consumed by it, the project, the experimentation. You darken doorways at strange hours for opinions on obscure theory, elements of the magic, the importance of ritual and their thoughts on your experiments with dementors. It wasn't said, in any sort of terms, they all knew that you wouldn't let it go if they forbade you, that you'd go down with your jaw locked around the puzzle by yourself if they did.

What they didn't know is that even if they did assist you, you'd go ahead anyway. As the first iteration of what you had all made bloomed to fruition before your eyes, beneath your hands, a gnawing doubt started to form. Not an alarm but irritating, like a hang nail.

You could never ask anyone to take that risk, not when it was your responsibility. Not until you knew it was safe.

You find the fixed point of yourself in the universe as the ritual completes, you tear it up. Every single layer of your soul flays away from you, matter coalescing something to form in colours your eyes have no cones to capture. Time, space bend like wire and there is light shining out of you in every direction, cutting thread whilst also weaving it. You reach out with no bodily hands but the whole singing ream of you toward ribbons of your magic: inhaling it home with its torn, ragged edges.

You die. For one minute and thirty-seven seconds, after you slump limply to the floorboards from the piano stool, you stop breathing. A ball of snow-white fur is encircled, bracketed by your unmoving chest and you don't wake up. Rennervate jolting your form hopelessly, unoccupied.

You're good at your work. You limit the burnt, iron taste that lingered in the back of your sinuses for weeks, the numbness of your extremities and the crimson-eyed stare of the burst blood vessels, your ears trickling scarlet, your nose. No one else has to see what you have seen, they come to you and ask if it's ready and if they didn't already have every step in this intriguing dance of experimentation in too many minds to obliviate: you'd destroy it. You'd destroy it all.

You love Cleo. You're terrified for her, the sleek little arctic fox putting to word feelings you'd much rather bury.

You still can't take any life other than your own.

Always had somewhat fragile health tending toward sickly. Hands are never warm. Bruises like a peach and scars so easily.

Views quidditch as a good fly spoiled.  

Is a very skilled pianist.

Has a fabric sling that he wears across his torso that Cleo (his daemon) is often curled up in. Looks like a single dad at meetings, toad on his shoulder.

While very eloquent and well-spoken, he is markedly less posh than when he first arrived at Hogwarts.

When he isn’t prone to bouts of insomnia he can take a nap pretty much anywhere. He was once found in a tree after several frantic hours search.

graphic template <3

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Scor had on the soft kind of slippers, missing most of a sole they dampened the sound of his steps against the floorboards so that Cleo would stop nipping at his ankles in frustration when they haunted Grimmauld in the early hours. There were only so many times ones’ literal fucking soul could relay that you sounded like an Erumpant crashing around in a cutlery drawer before you submitted yourself to some mild indignity. 

It neared two in the morning as he shuffled up to the kitchen counter, he leaned forward with a creak to flick the muggle kettle on and the small red light turned his fingers briefly crimson. Scorpius fished out a teabag and plopped it into the bottom of a chipped Chudley Canons mug, the kettle's happy bubbling drowned out the sound of his long yawn. Cleo poked him none too subtly in the shin with her snout and he rolled his eyes. He turned to pry the lid off the tin of biscuits and tossed her a small chunk of ginger snap that she crunched on like he often starved her for days at a time. One teaspoon of brown sugar and a splash of milk followed boiled water and the mug steamed, a perfect tea tan. 

Furred ears swiveled and suddenly Cleo trotted away from him down the hallway toward one of the parlours. He only eased into a somewhat stiff lope after her when he caught what she whispered back to him with a twitch of her whiskers.

“I smell blood.”

Scorpius paused in the thin shaft of diffuse light in the doorway, his palm hovered against the wood while he took in the room. Stained russet cloth, a cluster of bottles on the table beside her. Nascent candlelight flickered and lit one half of Lil’s face, the other side cast by the dark in stark shadow, he let out a tired sigh and scrubbed his free hand over his eyes and forehead. He shuffled across the room and plunked the mug of tea down next to her, something of a peace offering, he cut his eyes to hers briefly to ward off any complaints. Too hot to drink just yet, it’s how he takes his tea, lump it. 

Scor couldn’t help the soft scoff at her words, shaking his head before producing his wand and starting to trace it gently around her. The gash on her abdomen appeared fairly well sealed and there was a measure of the Blood Replenishing potion missing, which accounted for the slight coughing he’d heard before he’d come into the room. 

“Unless I can see through a bit of you, I’m not going to tell.” He murmured in placation while he flicked his wand, floating the candle and passing it over one cheek then the other, focused on the dilation of her eyes. 

In the scant few seconds that had passed Cleo seemed torn between wanting to comfort Lily and avoiding her. In the end she came up with something of a compromise and leaned her haunches against the redhead’s ankle, every now and then tapping the top of her shoe with a fluffy paw. She stood with a hushed whine and circled them a few times when nausea strayed too near, clearly worried about their dear friend. 

[  number  12,  grimmauld  place,  the  living room.  20  december  2030.  @revcntulet ]

it  was  the  dead  of  the  night  when  she  had  finally  been  able  to  return  home,  and  she  prayed  that  her  mother  hadn’t  stayed  up  waiting  for  her.  lila  didn’t  want  her  to  see  her  like  this,  couldn’t  bear  the  thought  of  how  her  mother  would  look  at  her  –  or  the  words  she  was  bound  to  say.  she  was  sure  that  she  would  suggest  that  she  shouldn’t  return  to  hogwarts  yet  –  or  perhaps  not  at  all.  and  that  wasn’t  an  option  that  she  would  even  entertain.  she  wasn't  a  coward  or  a  deserter.  she  had  to  come  back.

she’d  been  trying  her  best  to  be  quiet  while  she  applied  the  essence  of  dittany  onto  the  ruddy,  new  laceration  on  her  stomach,  but  the  medicine  stung,  almost  more than the  venom from the curse,  and  she  couldn't  bite  back  her  whimpers.  it  was  surprisingly  painful  to  rapidly  heal  your  own  body.  lila  knew  that  it  was  through  sheer  willpower  (  or  stubbornness  )  alone  that  she  was  still  conscious  –  yet  she  refused  to  call  out  for  help.  it  was,  again,  the  stubbornness.  she  forced  herself  to  choke  down  the  blood-replenishing  potion  despite  its  coppery,  metallic  taste,  but  she  couldn’t  help  but  gag  a  little  as  it  made  her  way  down  her  throat.

that  was  when  cleo  came  in,  closely  followed  by  scorpius.  she  knew  the  kit  must’ve  heard  her  –  that infuriating animal hearing.  lila  heaved  a  soft  sigh,  knowing  that  she  was  in  for  it  now.  at  least  it  had  been  scorpius  and  not  her  mother,  she  supposed.  “  –  i  know  how  it  looks,  but  you  should  see  the  other  guy.  ”  she  let  out  a  wry  laugh  that  made  her  insides  twinge  with  pain,  reverberating  from  the  center  of  her  stomach  wound  to  the  rest  of  her  small,  bone-tired  body.  she  bit  down  on  her  tongue  sharply  to  stifle  herself,  almost  hard  enough  to  make  it  bleed.

that  was  just  it,  wasn’t  it?  she  hadn’t  seen  the  wraith.  he’d  come  out  of  nowhere,  so  suddenly,  so  quickly.  one  minute  she  had  been  taking  her  usual  shortcut  home  through  the  back  alleys  of  diagon,  and  the  next,  there  had  been  nothing  –  nothing  at  all.  a  darkness  that  had  been  so  enveloping  that  it  clawed  its  way  inside  of  her,  leaving  her  feeling  hopelessly,  helplessly  alone.  once  again,  she’d  been  forced  to  struggle  through  a  fight,  having  nothing  to  rely  on  but  her  instincts  and  quick-thinking,  barely  making  it  out  alive.

when  she’d  finally  managed  to  knock  the  wraith  out  cold  with  a  powerful  stunning  spell  that  sent  him  hurling  towards  the  alley  wall,  she’d  shoddily  healed  herself  as  much  as  she  could.  then  she’d  done  what  she  had  to  do:  removed  the  wraith’s  disillusionment  charm,  waited  several  minutes  for  the  peruvian  instant  darkness  powder  to  wear  off,  and  repaired  his  broken,  bleeding  body  just  enough  to  ensure  that  he  wouldn’t  die.  every  moment  that  passed  by,  she’d  only  grew  more  furious,  absolutely  seething  with  rage  –  at  him,  of  course,  but  also  at  herself. 

this  was  her  own  fault  in  the  first  place.  what  an  asinine  idea  that  unbreakable  vow  had  been.  she’d  had  her  reasons,  and  she  still  believed  in  them  –  in  the  honor  of  accepting  consequences  for  her  actions  –  but  if  she’d  died  of  blood  loss  while  she  waited  for  the  darkness  to  subside  to  heal  the  very  person  who'd  injured  her,  she  would  have  never  forgiven  herself.  a  ludicrous  way  it  would’ve  been  to  go  –  choked  to  death  by  her  very  own  leash,  strangled  by  a  noose  of  her  design.  (  then  again,  it  was  only  what  she  deserved,  wasn’t  it?  she  knew  that  it  was.  that  was  why  she  had  done  it.  )

if  she’d  had  enough  strength  left  in  her,  she  would’ve  brought  the  wraith  into  the  safehouse  with  her  and  left  him  in  the  hands  of  the  order,  but  she  hadn’t  trusted  herself  not  to  splinch  due  to  her  injuries.  he  could  go  on  to  hurt  someone  else,  and  it  would  be  her  fault  for  not  stopping  him.  at  least  she’d  seen  his  face.  she  would  remember  it  for  next  time.  (  she  would  be  fooling  herself  if  she  didn’t  think  there  would  be  a  next  time.  there  always  was,  these  days.  )

“  –  look,  i  know,  but  just  ... don’t  tell  my  mum,  ”  she  murmured,  finally.  it  came  out  more  like  a  plea  than  she’d  meant  for  it  to.  “  she’s  got  plenty  she’s  dealing  with  already,  and  i  don’t  want  to  add  more to  the  list.  i’ll  be  fine  –  as  soon  as  you  patch  me  up  a  bit.  ”  she  looked  at  him  expectedly,  hopefully.

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i. a web weaving

ii. digging deeper

name: scorpius malfoy

age: 26

former house: slytherin

blood status: pureblood

face claim: froy gutierrez

allegiance: the knights of the round table

gender & pronouns: utp

you were born with winter in your bones — hands that never warm, skin that bruises like frost-touched fruit. they named you for scorpions & the stars, but you've always been more fragile than your namesake would suggest, more like morning frost than celestial fire, more whisper than blade. empathy runs through you like an open wound, bleeding for every hurt you witness, every pain you cannot heal. as a child, you learned early that tears came too easily, that your tender heart was a liability in a world that expects malfoys to be made of marble. your father's son in name but not in nature, you wear your family name like an ill-fitting coat, all sharp edges where you are soft, all cold angles where you carry warmth. like your mother, healing magic flows through your fingers, natural as breathing. you were never meant for the frontlines of battle, never meant to wield offensive spells like weapons. instead, you piece others back together with cold trembling hands that somehow never shake when it matters most, stitching wounds with silver thread of magic, teaching others to mend what violence has torn. there's power in this, though few recognize it — the ability to unmake death's work, to call life back from the brink. sometimes, you wonder if this gift is your penance or your redemption, your way of balancing the scales your family tipped toward darkness.

knowledge has always been your sanctuary, your shield against a world that looks at you and sees only shadows of past sins, only echoes of choices made before your birth. the library is your place of refuge, where the silence wraps around you like warmth, where the smell of parchment and ink reminds you of safer days. your intelligence isn't the sharp, cutting kind that draws blood — instead, it's deep and still as a winter lake. you collect facts like others collect treasures, desperately trying to make sense of a world that's never quite made sense of you. in large crowds, you fold inward like origami, each social interaction creasing another edge until you're ready to tear. anxiety lives in you like a second heartbeat, quick and fluttering beneath your ribs. you've taught yourself diplomacy, managed to weather the distrustful looks your surname draws with carefully constructed calm, but the hurt of it still sits beneath your skin like splinters that can never quite be removed. as a boy, you kept your sleeves rolled to the elbows despite the cold that perpetually haunted you, blank forearms a defiant statement: i am not marked, i will never be marked. now you know better — some scars are carried on the inside, rather than on skin.

you join the knights not only out of devout loyalty to its leaders but also out of the desire to shape something good with your name. in the barracks, you've learned that healing isn't always about mending flesh and bone — sometimes it's about sitting with someone in their darkness, holding space for their pain, bearing witness to their struggle. your bravery is the quiet sort: the courage to choose healing over hurting even when vengeance would be easier. your father tells you that you make him proud, that you've become something better than the legacy he left you. but some days, when the casualties mount and your magic feels too small against the tide of suffering, you wonder if being better is enough. still, you carry your father's teachings with you — not the ones about pureblood pride or family honor, but the harder lessons he learned about redemption, about choosing what's right over what's easy. you are winter's child, yes, but winter also preserves, protects, gives life a chance to rest and heal before spring's renewal. perhaps that's your true legacy in the end.

iii. connections

one. ALTAN SERVER POLAT , best friend & soulmate — here is my hand, he said. here is my hand that will not harm you.

two. OLEANDER FRANK LONGBOTTOM , ex-lover — i had a dream about you. we were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want. you said: tell me about your books, your visions made of flesh and light and i said: this is the moon. this is the sun. let me name the stars for you. let me take you there.

three. ROSE GRANGER-WEASLEY, HUGO GRANGER-WEASLEY, LILA LUNARA POLAT & JAN SIRAC POLAT , close friends — - archivist: i—i'm here. i came for you. - martin: why? - archivist: i thought you might be lost.

[revcntulet]

❥     𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒    [   𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚂    ]   .

headcanon prompts with questions based on plants   &   what they represent in flower language .  happy roleplaying !!  ♡

abatina :   is there anything in life your muse has changed their mind about over time   (   due to becoming more educated on the topic ,   certain experiences  ,   etc .   ) ,    or that they   would   change their mind about under certain circumstances ?  

acanthus :   is your muse deceptive ,   or willing to lie or deceive to achieve certain means ?   why or why not ?   

aloe :   how does your muse handle grief ?

amaryllis :   what is something or someone that your muse takes pride in ?   how do they express that pride ?   

anemone :   how does your muse view the world ;   as a cruel   &   unforgiving place ,   a land full of wonders ,   or something in - between ?  where does that world view come from   (   what experiences ,   life lessons ,   etc .   ) ?  

angelica :   where does your muse draw inspiration in life ?   what motivates them ?

apple blossom :   how does your muse go about expressing or not expressing their sexuality ?  

bachelor’s button :   does your muse actively seek romantic companionship ,   or cherish the liberties of being single ? 

basil :   does your muse have a love - hate relationship with anyone or anything ?

bay tree :   does your muse seek glory   &   accolades ,   or do they favour a simpler ,   more personal life ?  

begonia :   how cautious is your muse ?   are they prone to noticing red flags ,   or paranoid to the point of untrusting most everyone ?   why or why not ?  

belladonna :   how does your muse respond to silence ?   do they take comfort in soundlessness ,   or seek to fill the void with noise ?   

bluebell :   does your muse learn from their past ,   or are they prone to repeating the same mistakes ?  

carnation :   what is your muse’s relationship with their gender ?   how do they express or not express this relationship ?  

chamomile :   what is your muse likely to take away from a painful experience ?   are they one to be haunted by adversity ,   or to use what they’ve gone through to become stronger ?  

chrysanthemum :   how does your muse express romantic love ?  how do they feel about love as a concept ?  

daffodil :   is your muse one to be loyal in relationships ,   or are they likely to quickly move from one bond to another ?

daisy :   did your muse ever feel as though their innocence had been lost ?   what moment in their life could be described as the end of their innocence ?  

edelweiss :   what was the bravest moment in your muse’s life ?  are they known to be courageous from then on ?  

fern :   does your muse believe in magic or cosmic forces ,   or are they more likely to think their life is ultimately a matter of their own control ?  

forget - me - not :   has your muse ever forgotten something that is or was important to them ?   are they afraid of forgetting things like that ?  

gardenia :   is your muse one to confess romantic feelings early on ,   or to conceal them for long periods of time ?  

gladiolus :   describe a moment from your muse’s life that they will never forget .

goldenrod :   does your muse believe in luck or fortune ?  why or why not ?   where do they believe these things come from ?  

heliotrope :   does your muse believe in soulmates ?

hibiscus :   how does your muse view the gentler ,   daintier things in life ?   as things worth preserving   &   caring for ,   or things only bound to wither   &   disappear ?  

holly :   how strong is your muse’s sense of intuition ?  are they aware of it ?   do they ever fear that it is only paranoia ?  

hollyhock :   how strong is your muse’s sense of ambition ?  what’s something they strive for in life ?  

hyacinth :   is your muse athletic ?   does it come naturally to them ,   or have they had to work for their physique and/or skill ?  

hydrangea :   how much does your muse value communication in their relationships with others ?  are they prone to being misunderstood ?

iris :   if your muse could convey one last message to someone they have lost or left behind ,   what would it be ?  

ivy :   what are your muse’s views on marriage ?   do they believe it is something strictly for love ,   or an institution rooted in business   &   social benefits ?   do they desire or have they desired to be married ?

lavender :   how easy is it to gain your muse’s trust ?  once their trust is broken ,   how might one go about mending it ?  

lilac :   what was your muse’s childhood like ?   how has their upbringing affected them as they’ve aged ? 

lily :   how does your muse view their mother ?  

lotus :   has your muse ever felt as though they’ve been reborn ?  have they ever desired the feeling of a fresh start ,   or a better understanding of themself and/or the world around them ?  

magnolia :   describe your muse’s relationship with nature   &   the natural world .  

marigold :   is your muse prone to jealousy ?  how might they handle envious feelings ?  

mint :   does your muse view themself as virtuous   &   moral ?  what do these words mean to them ?

nasturtium :   describe your muse’s relationship with their birthplace ,   or homeland .  

oak :   who would your muse consider the strongest person they know ?  

pansy :   does your muse often reflect on their own actions ?   do they ever think a lot about the past ,   and what they could have done differently ?

parsley :   describe a holiday your muse enjoys ,   and why they enjoy it .

peony :   what would a   ‘  happy life  ’   look like in your muse’s eyes ?

poppy :   what comforts your muse ?

rhododendron :   is your muse receptive to warnings   &   advice given by others ?

rose :   how much does your muse value other people ?   do they wish to have many friends ,   lovers ,   and/or associates ?   are they an easy person to love ?

sage :   what is your muse’s legacy ?   what do they want to be remembered for   &   what might they actually be remembered for ?  

salvia :   is your muse possessive over people or things that matter a lot to them ?  how do they express that possessiveness ,   or lack thereof ? 

snapdragon :   is your muse merciful ?  why or why not ?

southernwood :   how seriously does your muse take themself ?   do they prefer a solemn   &   intellectual atmosphere or do they delight in jokes   &   banter ?  

sunflower :   what brings your muse the most joy in life ?  

tulip :   how does your muse view people in general ?  

violet :   how does your muse respond to betrayal ?

willow :   how does your muse handle sadness   &   depression ?

zinnia :   how has the loss of fallen comrades and/or loved ones affected your muse ?   has it taught them anything or given them any new perspectives ?

[revcntulet]

you call it ‘a heinous violation of legal and ethical rules;’ i call it ‘creative problem-solving’

[revcntulet]

THE BEAR 1.02 Hands

[revcntulet]

There were twice as many of them as there were the Order, at least. The graveyard itself crackled with ozone as curses, hexes and jinxes of all kinds sung through the air, undoubtedly the closest the residents had come to life in years. Crypts were blasted up from what was once meant as a final resting place, they were systematically eradicating the little cover the Order had been able to take. A dementor brushed silently up to Scorpius, craning for a taste and shooting a rush of frost up his spine. Cleo launched herself into the billowing black folds and sent the thing plummeting into the grass like a bundle of old bed sheets. He stumbled backward still barely in a crouch and only just managed to throw his hands up in front of his face as he was blown backward over a gravestone, his chin meeting the floor first followed closely by the rest of him.

Scor rolled onto his back, gasping while he blinked dazedly, ears ringing. A scream from his left had him diving to save the casting arm of a wix he hadn’t met before from turning completely to stone, his brain still rattled confusedly against the inside of his skull. A probe with his tongue told him that he’d almost bitten clean through his lip. Cleo pushed her wet nose against his cheek in encouragement.

He scrambled for further cover as the next explosion removed the wix he’d tried to aid from his view. Scor gulped in a deep breath, unwanted tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Across the field a weeping willow went up in a sudden frisson of decimating flames, a deafening crack cutting above even the wandfire, the tree had burst open down the middle from the power of the spell as though struck by lightening. The smoke started to gather against the side of the Church and choke those fighting below but the tree had suddenly lit the night with a wrathful glow, things were even worse than he’d hoped. 

The slight cosmetic charms he’d cast before being side-longed to Little Hangleton were starting to fail from the continued magic expenditure and the frazzled ends of both Scor’s focus and patience. He rarely went to the front lines for Malfoy Open Season among the older crowd of the Wraiths was often too exciting of an indulgence for them to deny but the makeshift Hospitals the Order set up at safehouses were all close to unmanned now.  Everyone was fighting.

He didn’t hear the footsteps until the last moment, until the hand came down on his arm and curled. An anchor of warmth in the crook of his elbow. He was so cold, his breath poured out of his mouth in fearful clouds to join the fog already pooling around their calves. They were in the coldest few months of the year, the Dementors were dragging the temperature even further below freezing, a pattern of slowly forming ice spiralled out across a nearby gravestone. The Muggle Cross was the last thing his eyes could follow before he was spun to face the new arrival. Al’s hand travelled up to his shoulder and forced him back down into a lower crouch, the sudden realisation had Scor swaying dangerously and he ducked his head into his lap to breathe for a moment. Cleo scrambled into the gap between his legs and butted her soft forehead against his own.  

It took him even less time to convince Albus than he’d imagined, perhaps aided by the utter cacophony that engulfed them from all sides. Every base, animal sound he’d ever learned to associate with battle raged from all around and he knew without another look that the Order were being utterly slaughtered. Though he tripped his idea out through a couple of cold tears and a padding of too-many apologies Al’s support choked down the sickened, guilt ridden pit in his stomach that they were calling on school-kids no matter how capable and no matter how far war had removed them from childhood. His near-numb fingers curled around his wand, Al’s stabilising grip moving down to steady him in more ways than just his hands. He focused on the very centre of his friend’s eyes and mustered that hidden well of hope, love and happiness. 

“Expecto patronum!”

Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, please Merlin, hurry.

SO SMILE, THE WORST IS YET TO COME, WE’LL BE LUCKY IF WE EVER SEE THE SUN. 

He saw her Hippo before he caught a glimpse of Fawn. Watching his dear friends in the Knights arrive was unbelievably bittersweet. How many had he chosen to doom to injury or death? There was no time to dwell. Cleo let out a strange vulpine scream of happiness as the other daemons arrived and he was buoyed even more by her indomitable spirit. They kept back to back while they attempted to clear their patch of the graveyard, eventually they realised they had a corner wall and some low trees to utilise and set up a makeshift field triage clinic to safely transport the serious cases that they just didn’t have the resources to treat, aided by a few of their friends who were able to protect, scout and bring a few of the injured back to them. 

Lily

Albus

[revcntulet]

who: @viviehnne​ when: 6th of january 2026 where: little hangleton graveyard

“The wound is poisoned.”

Scor’s eyes quickly tracked to see a sickeningly vibrant green tinge spreading across the flesh away from the oddly-shaped wound on the wix’s shoulder. Shoulder. Not ideal, a limb would have been far easier to slow down, instead it had a short, simple path directly to all their major organs. He twirled his wand nimbly and the soaked and ruined sleeve of their shirt neatly fell away. 

He turned to Viv, looking half-wild, blood matting the hair at his temple that had only semi-dried. 

“I need to do a blood siphoning spell.” Scor clenched his jaw and tapped his temple with his wand, an old looking pair of spectacles appeared over the bridge of his nose. The wix they had clustered against the back of a comically large and splendorous angel seemed to be losing consciousness, their pained cries dulled to feverish babbling. “You’re gonna have to help me Viv... Kneel on their legs, we have to pin them down.” He feared that in their half-aware state that if they used magical restraints they’d pull until they seriously injured themselves. “I know you’ve got my back. If you need to tap out and get better vantage to protect us, definitely do it, I just know that regardless of what pain relief I give them this isn’t going to be comfortable.”

[revcntulet]

who: @lilyii​ when: 6th of january 2026 where: little hangleton graveyard

“Save the others. Now!”

“Cleo!” He barked and dipped his grazed chin toward their friends, without hesitation her large eyes narrowed and she shot off across the ground.

Blood wended itself weakly down his throat as he finished his incantation, the purpled edges of where Lily had been struck were not smooth nor healed entirely but no longer wept the strange viscous liquid that had burned at his fingertips. “You’re going to have to adjust your casting stance, you take another curse to the side like that in the same spot and even I’ll start to have trouble finding bits of you to stick back together.” Scor was breathless already but the uncomfortable tightness of the bond took over toward the end of his sentence and had him gasping the last few words until he launched himself away from her out of his shaky crouch. Cleo caught a curse on her broad side, there wasn’t enough of her even with all her speed. All of the hairs on his arms stood on end. “Locomotor Wiggly!” One collapsed to their jelly-like knees in confusion. “Protego!” Scor bellowed.

[revcntulet]

His anger took many shapes: sometimes soft and familiar, like a round stone he had caressed for so long that is was perfectly smooth and polished; sometimes it was thin and sharp like a blade that could slice through anything; sometimes it had the form of a star, radiating his hatred in all directions, leaving him numb and empty inside.

Laila Lalami, Secret Son (via quotespile)