BREAKING: PETER PETTIGREW OFFICIALLY MISSING

2 March, 1979 Andy Smudgley

Less than a week after James Potter was reported missing, his close friend and fellow ex-Gryffindor, Peter Pettigrew, has unknown whereabouts. Missing for nearly 48 hours, Peter was last seen in the effort to find James Potter amongst close friends and colleagues.

Peter Pettigrew, 18, is a dear friend to many and beloved son. Described as brave, his friends are confident that he will make a safe return.

If anyone has any information on the whereabouts of one Peter Pettigrew, please contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement immediately.

💋

💋

Put a symbol in my ask for a character that...

♟ - my muse obeys ♛ - my muse admires ☯ - acts as a foil to my muse ♥ - my muse tends to cling to ☒ - my muse refuses to talk to ☀ - my muse refuses to talk about ☑ - my muse wants to know better ✉ - my muse likes to pester / talk to ★ - has the complete trust of my muse ☢ - my muse cannot stand being around ♫ - my muse likes to get into antics with ? - always manages to confuse my muse ♡ - my muse is crushing on / in love with ☎ - my muse first contacts in a emergency ☃ - my muse has very mixed feelings about ☮ - makes my muse feel calm when around them ✗ - my muse likes to pick arguments / fights with ◎ - makes my muse feel empty when around them ☁ - makes my muse wish they could fix their relationship ☊ - keeps my muse grounded or my muse keeps grounded ! - makes my muse piss their pants / run in fear at their presence ☓ - has scarred my muse in some way ( physically, mentally, emotionally, etc )

Send “💋” For a gif of how my muse would KISS yours.

grationemcaedis:

“Oi! Watch where you’re pointing that, will you?” The Scottish lilt of his mother’s side bled into his words and he frowned once they’d left his mouth. Then, composing himself, he let his gaze shift upward a bit from the shaky wand to the scrawny boy in front of him. “Is there a reason you’re bleeding all over the street?”

Corban knew the answer to his question before he even asked. It was a small blessing that the Order hadn’t thought to wear masks to skirmishes like his own side always had. That made it easy to identify the idiots who thought they could actually win the war.

And of all people the unfortunate individual just has to be-

“Yax-” Peter blinks, stupefied at the rebuke from his older coworker. “Y-Yaxley. Oh. Yes. Sorry.”

It’s only a belated moment after he lowers his wand that he remembers- Yaxley. His mind trips to a halt. Corban Yaxley, to be precise (right, hadn’t he just thought that?)- but the surname, the surname. Yaxley. Gryffindor, Peter thinks. Coworker, yes. Friendly, maybe. Pureblood, naturally. Death Eater, of course.

Fuck.

He raises his wand again in time to hear shouts from the narrow alley he’d struggled through, footsteps on the next street- and Peter freezes. Shouting, moving, saying anything- they’ll hear it, they’ll find him. So he stays still, hopes the fact he has his wand raised and Yaxley hasn’t yet drawn his is enough threat for the man to keep his silence-- hopes that Yaxley isn’t proficient in wandless magic and won’t just garrotte Peter where he stands.

@booksandbloodmoons @dogstarsirivs // oh lazarus ( how did your debts get paid )         february 25th, 1979         remus’ home

Gone. Missing. Nobody knows where he could be. They’ve searched everywhere.

Where did you see him last? The auror had asked him, someone he saw often in the corridors of the Ministry, someone he had talked with sometimes, in the canteen, in that cafe by the river- not that Peter had given it a thought at the time.

Not since weeks ago, he remembers saying. Weeks ago. The memory of it pounds at his head, makes his fingers shake before he can control it- he Apparates with a pop in the back of an alley. The guilt is ceaseless, utterly wrecking. Weeks ago.

(if he had been there, would it have been different?)

He’s been dizzy since the morning. Nausea in his throat, bile pulsing at his tongue- how it could have happened. How had they let it happen. Missing, he reminds himself, missing, not dead.

(he remembers the reports that had come in, the muggleborns and the bloodtraitors, red pressed deep into bone, words carved onto their flayed skin. wonders if it’s worse that they haven’t yet found his body.)

Peter only hesitates when he reaches the doorstep of Remus’ place. A hand reached out, knuckles raised to tap on the wooden door, and then he stops- hand outstretched, and he falters.

Breathe, he reminds himself, breathe. And then he knocks.

emmejoyxvance:

Emme knew it was a foolish choice to go out in the middle of the night by herself, and yet she was still walking down the sidewalk, cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, wand gripped tightly in trembling fingers. Most nights, her nightmares were dispelled easily enough with a break in her routine - get out of bed, make tea, read a book. On occasion though … like tonight, they had lingered in the very air of her flat, clouding the ceiling and making Emme feel like she were choking on them. On nights like this, she was compelled into activity - usually something safely inside, like the time she had scrubbed the entire kitchen, top to bottom, the Muggle way. But she could feel the urge to breathe fresh air and knew that nothing else would satisfy her.

She felt like a mouse as she scurried down the sidewalk. It had a strange sensation of both easing and compounding the terrors she felt. The fresh air did help, but it also made her memories a little stronger so all in all, she didn’t feel much better than she had a few minutes ago, but neither did she feel much worse. And there was something really soothing about being out so late, despite her inherent concerns; the streets were quiet and peaceful, and even her bad thoughts were drifting farther and farther away.

Spotting a bench ahead, she moved in that direction with the vague plan to sit for a few minutes before heading back to her flat; by the time she got there, hopefully she could sleep again. Her footsteps stopped short when she realized the bench was occupied, a tight knot of fear building in her stomach. However, the other person spoke and seemed harmless enough, and her feet hurt, so Emme swallowed back her worries and sat on the far end of the bench. “Mmm, nice enough,” she said hesitantly, “bit cold though.”

The clouds are parting a little, letting the moon through. He glances over at the newcomer for a moment before looking back to the sky. The discomfort has faded by the time he does- she doesn’t seem like anyone to be outright wary of.

In the dark, he thinks that the woman’s voice is somehow- familiar- it lingers at the back of his thoughts, does he know her? Perhaps, perhaps not, but it’s hard to see at night, the lamplight illuminates half her features and casts too much into shadow.

“Yeah,” he agrees. The wind bites at his fingertips, already frozen from holding a bottle of soda. But it’s a pleasant kind of numbness, a pleasant kind of chill when he inhales and exhales in a cloud of steam- it’s mostly just his limbs, his coat is thick enough he doesn’t feel the need to be shivering. If he was he’d be more worried. “Not wearing enough layers?”

Peter glances at her- properly this time, and blinks as he notices her wand for the first time. A witch then. Well, you never knew. Perhaps they do know each other after all- she didn’t seem like she could be that much older or younger than him, and her accent was British. He’d figure it out soon. “Should try a cloak warming charm. Heard it works wonders. But I like the cold to be honest, it’s rather refreshing.”

The moon is covered again when he turns back, the last glimmer of its pale husk hidden. It’s still visible, a half-circle of dim light behind the wisp of cloud, but no longer anything to look at.

“So, what’re you doing out here?” He sets his cola bottle down next to him. “Classic night stroll?”

@xalice-clara early january // cafe

Peter had ended up giving Prewett the address to the cafe and then work had dragged the both of them away again down the corridor and out of sight. Honestly Peter just needs a break from work. Perhaps he’ll take tomorrow off. So many case files to write, so many people to call- it irks him to even think of it.

Stirring two sugars into his tea, he wonders briefly whether Prewett will show up at all. He hopes she will- but then again, he doesn’t put much thought into it. If she does, she does, if she doesn’t- well, he eats here normally anyway.

He takes a sip of the tea, before setting it back down on the table and returning to his book.

ooc- What does the last text message you sent say?

i never use text i just use whatsapp nowadays so

⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠[22:14, 3/10/2017]: dont get hungover ok darling⁠⁠⁠⁠[22:14, 3/10/2017]: ⁠⁠⁠remember to drink some water

me (sarcastically) @a friend who is already drunk and earlier sent me a #goth selfie of himself smoking a cigarette and drinking like honestly i stg young rich professional who swears every single sentence and laughs at you every paragraph aND BUYS BEER TO DRINK IN THE CINEMA WHO DOES THAT and wHO ALSO KEEPS ON SWEARING IN THE CINEMA AND REPEATING SWEARWORDS AND CACKLING (honest to god it’s not even laughing its CACKLING). he belongs in a korean drama. honestly he does

xalice-clara:

“Ah, coffee. The true master of everyone’s lives,” she laughed.

Her comment was completely right, in terms of herself. She had been all for joining the Ministry, but was scared of beginning her adult life. She did not want to become boring, but felt that the auror office was a good balance to the unknown and becoming an adult. Everyone was starting to come into their own and flourish, and it made her happy.

Alice smiled broadly at him and nodded. “Yeah, I’m actually free tonight.” She had gotten into the habit of leaving her nights free, in case she just passed out after work. It led to more spontaneity, as well as more boring evenings. “We definitely need to catch up.”

wickcdwhispers:

It is chaos.

The heavy silver mask is worn proudly as she eyes the carnage, the blasting of curses and the labored breathing of their foes. Dolores doesn’t understand why she has offered to put herself in such danger, but revels in the adrenaline as it courses through her veins. Her wand is out and pointed, her opposite hand bloodied from a hex that caught her unaware just moments previously. Death excites her more than it should, she understands, and later it might frighten her. But for now she is a cat, chasing helpless mice through the night. And just as she thinks this, she watches as one of them escapes. 

Stupid, little creature.

Following silently is easy, he seems too preoccupied with his damages to notice her, and when she is ready to announce herself, Dolores knocks a rubbish bin to the ground. The glass bottles come spilling out, echoing in the otherwise quiet night. “What’s the rush, love? The party isn’t over.”

Shattering glass and the glint of a silver mask in the half-light of a lamp, and Peter’s heart thuds in his chest, too loud in the silence, too loud in the dark.

“Oh, the usual. Family business,” he grits out, humour black as it taints his tongue. “Had to leave early.”

( and the voice- the voice is familiar- oddly familiar. Peter can think about it later. )

“Don’t suppose-” he takes a step back, his foot clattering on an abandoned tin can- “You could let me do that.” His smile is jagged, strained from the headache- he’s fairly certain it might be from a cracked head now, and not just a migraine. “I really do have some other appointments to attend to, so if you don’t mind-” a twist of his hand- “Expulso-” and blue light flashes from his wand, aiming straight for the Death Eater.

theflying-lioness:

Gwen looked up when she saw the beer bottle slide across the bar toward her. She looked up and saw the boy sitting next to her. He looked oddly familiar, but a this point of the night everyone did. She picked up the beer in a motion of thanks and immediately brought it to her lips. 

“Something like that.” she said, her voice holding back any emotions that she might have still had. She was going to make sure that they were gone by the end of this bottle. She put the drink down on the bar and tried to wave down the bartender again and finally got his attention. “round of shots for me and this bloke.” Gwen ordered before taking another drink from the bottle the stranger had handed to her. 

It only then hit her that she was drinking an open bottle from a stranger and looked at him for a moment. “You’re not trying to drug me are you?” 

“Something like that,” Peter agrees, and exhales in a sigh.

At the unexpected question, he glances up, blinks. A moment is spent vaguely disturbed, looking at the beer bottle and squinting- for some reason the thought crosses his mind ‘has he?’- before Peter replies, with some certainty, “No, I don’t think so. I sincerely hope not.”

He’s never really had anyone ask him that before. That’s somewhat a novelty. Not one he particularly likes but, eh.

He takes another sip of his beer, glancing at Gwen again. “If you’re worried, could always wait for your shots. Are you worried?”

pandora-lightwood:

“Everything is ready, except for the East wind” she murmured, in response. She didn’t know a lot, but she picked up on the things people said and retained a lot of it within her mind. The sentence sprung to her mind and she spoke the words without a second thought. She watched him rearrange his scarf, a little distracted before shaking herself and answering him, “oh, just out… clearing my head”.

She remembered him from Hogwarts, although she doubt he would remember her. He was one of the famous marauders, the boys who were always the talk of the school, pulling pranks and getting themselves noticed. She had been quieter, had laughed from a distance and admired their ability to amuse everyone around them. She had stuck by Daisy’s side for the most part, keeping her head down where she could.

She sat down next to him with a shrug, “I don’t think it matters what time of day or night it is, nowhere feels safe anymore” she said, bitterly, turning her head towards him and offering a warm smile. “I’m as good as I can be when the world is falling apart around me” she quipped. “How are you?”

He blinks, confused for a fleeting moment- lets it pass a moment later.

“No, nowhere does feel feel safe,” he agrees, morbidly amused by the thought of it. “Nowhere does.” For a moment, he thinks he should be drinking something stronger than syrup mixed in with water and carbon dioxide.

“Well, hopefully the world is done with falling apart soon.” Another sip of icy cola, and then he decides he’s done with it completely, bending over to deposit it on the ground next to him and leaning back on the bench. “At least then we’ll have the chance to pick up the pieces. I’m doing as well as can be, slammed with work. Work never seems to stop, does it. World would end and we’d still have to go in the next day.” His lip curls at the thought of the stacks of cases waiting for him at his desk.

A pause, a glance at the woman next to him. “I suppose it’s a good thing. Some kind of constant.”

tildentoots:

If he looked that bad, Tilden huffed, a self-deprecating smirk on his face. “Nah, not yet.” Death. A strange concept, so foreign, yet so nestled in the very air that surrounded them, ash and mourning and pain that twisted into their bones. But he wasn’t about to die and join those ranks. A hand brushed over his face, pressing into the bridge of his nose before looking back over at Peter.

“It’s Tilden, Tilly, Til, etc. Especially when we’re all alone like this Petes.” The other man looked exhausted as well, tired eyes with a tired smile. He looking freezing cold, yet he somehow looked comfortable with a cola in his hands. If only he could get that detached, but thoughts were still so tangled in his head. 

“Plant’s are fine, still blooming. If there’s one constant in my life, that’s them.” Tilden cocked his head, eyes blinking shut for a moment, before refocusing on the person next to him. “Why you out here?”

Petes. Sheer and utter disgust graces Peter’s features as he stares at Tilden.

“Right.” He says. “Sure.” And doesn’t use Tilden, Tilly, or Til.

Unfortunately it’s hard to stay offended when Tilden Toots looks and sounds like he’s straight out of a kid’s television program, all happy grins and sunshine- covered with a nice muck of grit and pain that seems to be falling like volcano ash on everyone nowadays.

Or perhaps Peter is exaggerating, but honestly he’s not that far off the mark. Perhaps not a kid’s program. Mostly just... he eyes Tilden again, gaze narrowed, a gardening program. ‘Plants are the one constant of human lives’ he hears from a tinny television set, a vague image in his mind of Toots in an apron with a cactus and a shovel next to him.

Peter takes a moment to wonder at why he’s so keen on sarcasm in his thoughts today.

“No real reason. Couldn’t sleep, needed a walk. What about you?”

cassandraburke:

She examined him carefully, a smirk gracing her face as brown eyes wandered from his toes to his eyes and stopped. Every muscle inside of her revolted against her current attempts to stand up again, With a sudden push, however, she forced herself to finally stand again, even if she felt almost too weak to even lift her head. Bruised and bloodstained as she were, one could easily assume Cassandra fought for her life just moments ago – in a way, she did. 

“Did we fight? I thought,” she stopped mid-sentence as she raised her hands and looked at her nails and fingertips, which were completely covered in red.

Why can’t I remember? I – what happened?! She started to feel nervous, almost out of control – definitely out of her mind. “Peter, isn’t it? I used to be one year above yours in Hogwarts. Did you attack me? What have you done?!” she could only assume the worst right now. Although she didn’t move forward or tried to attack, Cassandra definitely was off-color.

He shakes his head, carefully never breaking her gaze. “That wasn’t me. I didn’t see you at all during the fight.” The truth, and it’s a little bit disturbing.

Cassandra Burke would be a terrifying fucking figure, if she didn’t look like she was currently about to fall over and collapse and perhaps die of bloodloss. Even if most the blood looks clotted now, like she isn’t quite about to die.

Peter has to wonder- again- why he isn’t hitting her with a hex and Apparating the fuck away. Suddenly, Apparation sounds like a good idea. Instead of course, he looks at her, and the words that come out of his mouth are almost completely cut off from his reeling thoughts-

“Need any... need any help, with that?”

Circe.

battle-scarred | open