#spellfire club

[childlikegoblinqueen]

My “era swapped” Satanic Panic Evelyn Clawthorne cosplay so far…

AKA Evelyn Clawthorne meets Eddie Munson.

[sugarsnappeases]

microfic - bella killing sirius 🥰 | 1.5k words | warnings for um. death. obviously. but also for confusing narrative style ❤️

for the light of my life @quillkiller on this most auspicious day

Bellatrix laughs as Andy - the woman who looks like Andy, except for the purple hair, and the dirty blood - falls backwards away from her. She’s never going to get into the Duelling Club at Hogwarts if she keeps leaving her left side open like that; she’s lucky she has Bellatrix there to teach her.

The woman - her sister, blood-traitor, spawn of a mudblood, fighting on the side of the Order - doesn’t get back up again, limp body tumbling down the steep, stone steps. Bellatrix hasn’t lost a duel since she was thirteen, she holds the Duelling Club record for most consecutive wins - she’s the best person that Andy could have come to for help - she wasn’t going to be beaten by some filthy Auror brat.

Turning away from the unmoving body, Bellatrix runs deeper into the fray, moving towards the raised dais with its stone archway. It’s chaos, flashes of spellfire shooting across the room in all directions, red, purple, white, green, shouts and crashes and explosions as spells miss and damage the room, or as they hit their mark and damage the enemy.

She deflects a curse on instinct, swinging around to face the direction it had come from - a familiar face, her baby cousin - “Bella, will you duel me now?” - a traitor and a coward and unworthy of the name of Black.

Bellatrix returns fire. She’ll go easy on him, because Sirius is just a boy, mock-duelling with a borrowed wand and the small repertoire of spells that he had learned from her or from his parents, but he had always been quick on his feet, good at skipping out of the line of fire - she would make a proper duellist of him yet. She should kill him, for having everything and for running away from it, for turning against her, against his family, cursing their name then having the audacity to use the spells that she had taught him to fight for the wrong side of the war.

It’s the first time that she's seen him since he was disowned, in the middle of Diagon Alley, fighting with the Order of the Phoenix, and she should kill him. It’s the Yule holidays of her seventh year at Hogwarts, Sirius is nine and determinedly dodging her spells, one of their favourite games. They’re both somewhere else, screams and despair and a spinning, ungraspable whirlpool of memories, standing on the raised stone dais now, close enough to hear the whispers from the tattered veil hanging in the archway - soft, insidious, beneath the clamour of the battle.

Sirius throws a spell back at her, bouncing on the balls of his feet, “Hello cousin.”

Bellatrix grins as she dodges - Sirius is always so energetic, so eager to fight with her in a way that even Andromeda never is, let alone Narcissa or Regulus - so desperate to draw her blood, the same blood that runs through his veins, the same blood that he had forsaken, singling her out on any battlefield in the same way that she always did with him. He had run from everything that she had ever wanted - the Black heirship and the power, the esteem, which that entailed - as if it was nothing, as if she didn’t dream about commanding that level of respect, or awe, or fear, as if she hadn’t been scrambling every day of her life to try and get as close to it as she could. Sirius had run away from it, run away from her, and now he was a part of the Order of the Phoenix and she should kill him. She could kill him, the Black Heir, laughing as he narrowly avoids getting hit with a stupefy - he’s only nine, it’s not like he could really defend himself if she started firing off some of the more lethal spells she knew.

She had taught him how to perform the severing charm just the day before, lending him her wand - walnut and dragon heartstring just like the one that had chosen him when he turned eleven - he’s using Cissy’s today, struggling a little against it’s unicorn hair core, mostly relying on his ability to jump out of the trajectory of spells.

The two of them are volleying spells back and forth - ones that she had taught him and ones that the Dark Lord had taught her and ones that he had learnt without her somewhere - dodging or shielding or deflecting, spells barely grazing each other, she always knew that he would make a fine duellist - she had made him into one. They duel like this every time they see each other, during her holidays from Hogwarts, then during his holidays from Hogwarts; she had watched Sirius turn into a threat - she had taught him how to be a threat.

Bellatrix laughs as he manages to shoot off the severing charm that she had taught him - three different lethal curses in quick succession, a determined kind of acrimony about him, not surprised to see her fighting with the death eaters, in the same way that she isn’t really surprised to see him with the Order. She lets it hit her - blocks them all with a complicated shielding charm and throws back a confringo that explodes the cobblestones beneath his feet - still laughing as he cheers about how he’s fatally wounded her, feeling a sting from the shallow cut on her arm - he’s determined as ever but there’s less anger now; he’s playful, grinning when a curse singes the ends of his hair.

She knows she shouldn’t kill him - she isn’t sure if she could kill him anymore, he’s going toe to toe with her in a way that he’d never been able to when they were kids - she doesn’t think she really wants to kill him, her favourite cousin, more just the things that he represents, the signet ring on his finger that gives him an authority, aged nine, that she doesn’t have, can’t have, at nearly double his age - she thinks she wants to kill him now, though, now that he’s betrayed her, found a new family of mudbloods and blood-traitors and abandoned the role that she’s always craved. Bellatrix fires a stunner at him - puts up a hasty shield against his entrail-expelling curse, another one that she had taught him - the two of them laugh as he ducks it, the red light whizzing over his head - “Come on, you can do better than that!”

It’s loud, cacophonous with the battle raging all around them - blood on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley, some of it hers, some of it his - Cissy’s complaining that she’s bored and wants to go outside - the whispers emanating from the crumbling stone archway are getting louder, seeping their way into Bellatrix’s head - and Sirius’ voice rings in her ears, echoes around the room.

She flings another spell at him, grinning as she watches him determinedly move through the wand movements for diffindo again - he laughs as she stumbles, as her shield collapses under the force of his reducto, as he gains the upper hand - concentrating on pushing his magic through Cissy’s wand, not paying close enough attention to the spell she’s just cast - Sirius deflects the curses she hurls at him, sends a barrage of spells back at her - he’s laughing, cocky as always, as her spell hurtles directly towards him.

It hits him right in the middle of his chest.

It’s quiet, suddenly.

Quiet as Sirius’s laughter cuts off. As his eyes widen in shock. As he falls backwards, slowly, as if some invisible weight were making him heavy, as if some invisible force were gently lifting him away. She looks at him and his face is gaunt, an underlying emaciation that no amount of hearty meals can hide, she sees the same whenever she looks in a mirror, right down to the tired, but ever determined glint in silver-grey eyes.

Bellatrix watches Sirius sink into the tattered veil - watches him fall to the floor of the duelling room in Grimmauld Place, for a second she imagines that he might be dead, what it would feel like to kill him - watches the grim smile on his face as one of his spells meets its target and her vision goes black - the veil flutters, those insidious whispers seem to pause for a moment, then rise to a roaring crescendo as his body disappears.

She screams along with them, triumphant - she hasn’t lost a duel since she was thirteen, Sirius has never once beaten her, always ending their duels on the floor - she’s killed Sirius Black, and everything that he represents, even if he had spurned the signet ring and the esteem that came with it. Bellatrix walks across the room to enervate him - wakes up in Malfoy Manor, Cissy leaning over her and asking if it was true that Sirius was a part of the Order now, if he had really beaten her in a duel - turns away from the whispers and the archway and the duel that she had won, skipping back up the stone steps, laughing as she hops over Andy’s - the mudblood’s - body.

[idreamofdraco]

Update: I (Don’t) Need a Hero by idreamofdraco

Chapter 5: An Inability to Cher In which Draco goes clubbing.

The third time Draco performed the art of saving Weasley’s life, they’d been in a club in the grey area between Diagon and Knockturn Alley. He didn’t frequent such establishments usually. Too many sweaty bodies plastered together. Too many drunken idiots who became a bit too handsy for Draco’s comfort. Too many sounds and lights that reminded him a bit too much of spellfire and battles.

Clubs were chaotic and awful, and Draco had thought Harry shared the same opinion, but it had been his idea for a boys’ night out. Somehow Draco had got dragged along even though he wasn’t allowed to drink. Somehow he’d let Harry and Ron convince him.

Mount Weasley in her dormant state just happened to be at the same club, dancing under the swirling lights with some of her teammates. Draco had watched her from afar, the smile on her face foreign to him, the loose way she moved her body with people she didn’t hate fascinating him. He had saved her life twice and had delighted in her increasing outrage caused by his audacity to do so every time they met at a mutual function. He’d thought provoking a volcanic eruption was the most fun he could have with her, but seeing her uninhibited and enjoying herself made him wish for other things.

Things he didn’t want to name. Things he couldn’t name because they were so alien to his usual desires and so mundane at the same time.

Read more: AO3 | FFN | FIA

[ferulahq]

FIREY ATTACK AT FRIENDFIRE!

Midweek of the highly successful opening week at Friendfire patrons inside felt horror grip their hearts are the Dark Mark was cast above the building in Knockturn Alley and two masked individuals entered the scene! Spellfire rang through the crowd as curses hit those who were on the front lines, after setting fire to the bathroom and trapping three inside. Critical injuries occurred but no deaths.

The year-long uneasy peace that Wizarding London has felt seems to be over. At this time the Ministry has no leads on who caused the attack or who was behind the all too familiar bone white masks.  This leads many to believe that this muggleborn run business will close due to the pressure of the still on the run Death Eaters but Tremlett says otherwise.

Stating, “This club? Nah it’s not closing, just needs some stronger fire dampeners and a few mending charms and it’ll be right as rain again. Come on by again tonight, you’ll see. Us muggle born are far tougher than a bit of fire.”

During this horrific attack, three patrons were seriously injured. Tracey Davis (20), Ronald Weasley (19), and Pansy Parkinson (19) were all in the line of fire receiving second-degree burns on various parts of their bodies. St. Mungos was quick on the scene after Aurors were able to put out the dangerous fire. However, the perpetrators were able to sneak away into the dead of night.

EVENT PLOT DROP:

Please do not start any new event threads after Feb 2nd, if you have open threads you should wrap them up by Feb 16th. 

[double-threnody]

The Spellslinger (D&D 5e Post)

Across the sweeping hills of Aeslar, from the smallest frontier outposts to the grandest standing cities, rumor and hearsay are slowly lifting one bounty hunter into myth and legend: the Spellslinger. One of those new gunslinging thrillseekers, people whisper, but - get this - they charge their strange weapons with terror and spellfire and blanket the battlefield in a storm of bullets and raw, elemental magic! Wherever you run, they say; wherever you hide, if there's a bounty on your head, the Spellslinger will soon follow.

 Travis had to wash the Spellslinger's laundry. For years.

He was a boy of twelve summers when the Spellslinger walked through his town. She carried a chip on her shoulder and a bounty mark's head in her fist, every inch of her made up of sun-bleached leather and the choking stench of gunpowder. She was the toughest, oldest broad he had ever seen in his life, he thought to himself, and his opinion didn't change when she pointed at him with a gloved, bloodstained finger. "That one," she growled. He screamed as the men of his tiny, dusty farming community crowded around him and herded him forward, pressing him away from the bored gaze of his parents and closer to the Spellslinger's outstretched glove.

 "Yer my slave, ya idjit, an' slaves don't bitch n' moan. Ya know who does? Marks," she would grumble, dutifully ignoring the boy's pouts and glares whenever he dared put up a hint of resistance. He tried to run away, once, disappearing into the tall grass off the side of the road while the Spellslinger was "takin' a leak." He had made it twenty paces before a CRACK of displaced air knocked him onto his ass, and there she was - wreathed in a veil of spellfire, her polished revolver spinning idly in her hand, and a fast-fading spell circle wafting away on the breeze behind her. "You run from Caroline Fokker again an' I'm like ta weigh ya down with yer share'a lead, boy."

 "Why ain'tcha ever call me by my name, ya fuckin' hag! I got one, dammit!" Despite her efforts, he still found time to bitch and moan at the Spellslinger over the years... usually while scrubbing her spare shirts down in a stream or while learning his letters by copying down the sprawling, shaky script of her worn and beaten spellbook.

"Slaves ain't need a name, boy," she'd growl at him, a flicker of lightning in her eye lighting her weathered face beneath the brim of her hat. "Besides, th' hell would a travesty like yerself do with one? Fetch that wood an' light it how I showed ya, idjit. Ya don't hurry an' I'm gonna make ya start huntin' yer own damn food."

 "Travesty, darlin', fetch me my Diplomacy, wouldja? Might be I've gotta perform a lil' outreach." The Spellslinger took a long, deep drag from her cigarette as she peered out over the valley. The moon had already tucked behind the clouds, and visibility wasn't great... but she could still make out a few lanterns half a mile below, twinkling in their windows. With a wheezing cough, she stubbed the cherry into the dirt and ground it beneath her boot. "An' mind th' barrel; that girl's fresh-charged."

"I gotcha, boss," he replied, already pulling the longarm from its holster on the side of Fokker's horse. The mismatched beast of a rifle, a monster of the Spellslinger's own design, purred quietly with the telltale, thrumming note of terrifying spellwork layered over the high-caliber rounds within. "Ya find th' target down there?"

A barely-audible growl of approval escaped Diplomacy's long, sigil-etched barrel as the Spellslinger took it from his grasp. The Spellslinger herself stroked the upper receiver lovingly as she checked the ammunition and listened to the purr of the magic eager to be unleashed. "Oh, he's down there. Ain't quite sure where," she mumbled, pressing the rifle into her shoulder and drawing the heavy sights onto the distant hamlet. "I reckon he'll flush out a'fore long. Diplomacy here's jus' wantin' ta initiate talks, issall," she chuckled. With a slow sigh and a brief click, the valley lit up with the light of the midday sun.

 "How many summers ya seen now, Travesty?" The Spellslinger punctuated her question with another wheezing, hacking cough, choking on each breath but refusing to sway in her seat atop her horse. She rode along beside him, already leaning down to brush her gloved hand over Diplomacy's stock as they approached the gates to the city.

He took a short pull from his smoke as he thought about it, briefly counting off in his head. She'd taught him his numbers some years back, now, shortly after his letters. He'd hardly be able to figure his own damn age without them, she'd cackled. "Been... twenny-five summers, now? 'Bout a few since ya picked me up, ya fuckin' hag," he chuckled. He waited patiently for her reply - typically a harsh laugh, followed by a swift smack upside the head or a threat to end his life - but none came. Turning in his saddle, he brought his horse to a slow stop. "Boss?"

The Spellslinger sat silently, her misty eyes focused somewhere in the distance behind them. As he watched, she jerked her head just a hair to track something: movement, in the treeline. A small tremor shook his horse beneath him. What the hell was that?

"Reckon I'm feelin' a touch'a hunger, darlin'," she murmured before she descended into another coughing fit. Diplomacy rumbled dangerously as she leaned down to pull the weapon into her arms, eyes still fixed on the trees. Something was coming. "Twenny-five summers an' ya still can't tell when yer boss is feelin' peckish." Her laughter came out as a raspy hiss of breath, and her horse began to turn under her heel to face the trees. "Why don'tcha get on past them city gates an' find us a place ta tuck in? I need a bath an' a meal, an' you need ta wash my fuckin' shorts." Somewhere ahead of him - and behind her - the city guard was beginning to mobilize. He could hear the rattle of cannons and ballista being loaded atop the wall from here. A booming roar echoed from beyond the treeline in response, and he immediately kicked his mount into a full circle to face the approaching threat. Was it a hydra? Hill giant?

He stopped, tugging on his ride's mane as he found the humming barrel of Diplomacy hovering inches from his face. "Giddon, now, Travesty. I toldja ta find me a place ta eat. Don't forget th' whiskey, now, darlin'." The Spellslinger stared him down from behind the rifle's rear sight, a touch of worry joining the weary tremor of illness in her occasional cough. "I'll be back a'fore supper, an I intend ta see it waitin' for me. Now git." Her finger fluttered over the trigger until he finally, obediently, turned to make speed for the gates.

 Travis watched from the threshold of the city, the gates slowly drawing shut as horns sounded up and down the wall. Hill giants, the guards hollered. The noise grew to a deafening din, peppered with the rumbling whoops and roars of the approaching raiding party in the forest. In the distance, a massive tree splintered and toppled, and then there they were. Four of the ugly bastards broke from the trees, swinging the unearthed trunks like clubs and roaring at the city defenders. But Travis could only see the lone, leatherclad rider, standing atop her horse, rifle cradled in her grip as she barreled towards the oncoming horde. Her voice, somehow louder than the shouts of the defenders and the roars of the attackers, boomed through the crack in the iron gates. "I'M CAROLINE FOKKER, AND I'M MISSIN' MY FUCKIN' SUPPER FER THIS!" A terrifying lance of light bloomed from the barrel of her weapon just as the gates ground shut.

 He wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his brow as he put the finishing touches on the receiver. With a groan from his weary back, tired from hours hunched over his inn room's desk, he stood to his feet and admired his work. The barrel of the revolver gleamed in the low lamplight, freshly polished and etched with the cold, empty sigils that he would later use to bind the weapon to himself as an extension of will. It was a near-perfect replica of the old and worn weapon that lay holstered at his hip - the only thing he couldn't reproduce with his meager kit of tools was the distinct stench of gunpowder, leather, and arcane haze that followed the gun's previous owner all the way to her death. Still, he reasoned to himself, she'd probably find it adequate craftsmanship. For a travesty like himself.