thomas shelby: a summary.

alphardlblack​:

nott. just the cherry on top of the shit sundae that would keep him away from fortescue’s for the next week. something of a self-proclaimed maverick, it didn’t stop him from throwing his sizeable beaters weight around at almost every opportunity and the last thing al needed was another set of judgmental eyes waiting for him to slip. 

“oh, sorry, i was busy trying to save everyone from here halfway to buckinghamshire by the looks of things!” al’s face turned a rather odd shade of puce as he tried and failed to keep his voice down; his derisive tone dripped sarcasm, fingers trembling with anxiety and adrenaline both. he took a deep, steadying breath but his words still came out somehow incredibly tetchy in contrast to the actual meaning, “thank you for saving my cat then!”

“and you’re a two-dimensional cliché that i’m already bored of. so glad we could have this delightful tête-à-tête, anything else? you don’t like this shade of healers robes with my complexion? mind your own business.” alphard spoke coolly as he started to tend to baz with a gentle flick of his wand. 

Julian blinked. Blinked again. Of all the things to expect of Dorian’s old friend it wasn’t for him to come up squalling not unlike the kneazle, more like an angry kitten than anything. It was positively adorable. The hairpin turn into fury was abated at the prospect of getting the prim and proper Black son further ruffled, his hair was a mess and he seemed to still be struggling to catch his breath. 

“Oh no my apologies, clearly, I didn’t realise I was being told off by a sodding hero.” He watched Al with a furious intensity, the strength of that gaze having made many a person turn tail. Alphard seemed to know what he was doing, quick and competent with the cat who had now quieted to tiny, pathetic sounding mewls. There was something kind in the hands, something almost instinctive about how he worked. Julian forced himself to grit out a response, “you’re perfectly welcome.” 

“Ouch, what a scathing indictment of my character, I may never recover. Those in glass houses shouldn’t cast stones, perhaps? Cauldron, kettle, black.” The ones who shirked the society they were raised in were fresh blood in open water, ripe for sharks and yet they all felt they were some visionary individuals for turning their backs. He gestured to the gaping hole into what he suspected was Alphard’s dwelling, “Merlin, your manners as a host have suffered since you left your family, eh? Didn’t even invite me in for a cup of tea.”

dearmiranda​:

WHERE: slughorn’s christmas party and fundraiser STATUS: open to all

It’s strange being back at Hogwarts; stranger still to be mingling with people in one of her former professor’s offices. It’s been years since she last walked the corridors herself, but despite the time that’s passed, there’s a familiarity about being inside the castle that makes it feel as if it were only yesterday. 

Getting enough money together for the ticket to attend tonight had been a struggle, but Miranda had just about managed to scrape together the last of her spare funds to do it. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a way for her to help the reparation efforts after the attack in some way; but standing at the edge of the festivities in one of her mother’s old dresses, alone… now she’s not so sure.

Miranda had thought she’d run into someone else she knew here, but she’s had no luck so far. Maybe if she waits just a little longer, someone familiar will arrive. Lingering on the fringes of the other attendees, she clings to her glass like a lifeline. “Well… at least the decorations are pretty.”

Julian eyed the affair with general discomfort, his dress robes a severe charcoal and scarlet that he both revelled in and loathed. The tickets had already been bought and paid for, it did no good for the family name if the table had any unfilled seats. He repeated this like a mantra to himself; over and over as he skulked the edges in the darkest corners of the room out of habit more than anything else. 

This was their bread and butter, fundraisers and glittering glassware. Overindulgences, networking. There was little for him at a party such as this one, yet he felt the need to endlessly cater to the idle chatter and bolster the subtly encouraged misunderstanding that meant that very few people knew where he truly worked day in and day out. The softer soles he favoured left his steps silent across the stones. 

“I’m glad someone enjoys them,” Julian looked at her glass and decided instantly that he’d have whatever she was having next. The soft chatter was punctuated now and then by startlingly odd laughter and he rolled his shoulders each and every time. “You look as lost as I feel,” he seemed to think on this in a slight pause before adding, “that’s a good thing, if that wasn’t clear.”  

seventeen going under // sam fender

alphardlblack​:

al dashed through diagon at a clip that would surprise most who knew him, lithe leg muscle bunched as he carried on back toward his own flat. he’d spent the last four hours diving mindlessly between patients as they writhed like surfaced worms on the paving slabs, gently arranging transport for the serious cases that couldn’t be moved to saint mungo’s personally. 

approaching six years of study, he knew that scourgify could only do so much for blood stains and that nothing could slow down the pinwheeling, tumultuous thoughts in his head. it still disturbed him that to be in his true element it necessitated hurt. 

the fine dust kicked up into the air from the recent damage cast a chalky, translucent veil over everything and grated at his eyes; he had wrapped his scarf over his nose and mouth to not breathe in the debris. as he approached the turn off for knockturn a very familiar yowling filled his ears.

“unhand the kneazle immediately!” the shout burst forth with such force that he surprised himself, foolhardy if he were about to die at the hands of a grindelwald supporter. he eyed julian with open suspicion then glued his gaze to the cat currently cutting the other man to ribbons. “come on you big bastard, you cannot give up on me now. you’re supposed to eat my face when i die alone in the flat remember? you were so looking forward to it.”

The only thing the sudden burst of sound got Alphard was a singular raise of an eyebrow and a slow turn from Julian. One of the littlest Blacks. How delightful. Julian let his teeth show, suddenly all carnivore. So brave even with his hands shaking, so skinny a light breeze could blow him away. Still so ridiculously superior like the rest of them. 

“You know this thing? Well, where in Merlin’s bollocks were you when Diagon fell on it then?” Julian stepped up to meet him now, the slow menacing prowl he’d been about to affect dashed by Al’s seeming familiarity with the animal. His first tiny glimpse of a relief from responsibility shone like the north star at dusk. 

He knows immediately that he’s pulling a face at what just came out of the other Slytherin’s lips, just as the messy head of black hair ducks down to their patient nestled against Julian’s biceps. Such high prospects could not be ignored, “You’re barmier than a Hodag in heat, you do get that, don’t you? I feel as though you ought to know this.”

abrxasmlfoy​:

It was interesting - the tells they all had. Abraxas façade was likely to crumble the second he felt a loss of control, or a loss of appearances. It took so little for the fragile world they had built up to go crumbling around them. It was what happened to an elite who had such a tenuous hold on power. an elite who perhaps suspected that their position wasn’t based on anything real. 

It was all any of them had in the end. The façade - Abraxas had learned early on that the best way to gain power over another was to force them to crack, and reveal the real vulnerable person underneath. The danger, when against a worthy foe, was that they would destroy your façade before you had a chance to destroy theirs. 

With all of this in mind Abraxas made an exerted effort to smooth out his features. It was his preferred state now, emotionless, aloof. Whatever it took to ensure he did not give away what he was thinking. 

“and what interesting thing would you have recommended?” Abraxas asked with genuine interest. “what action could have made their attempts anything more than… desperate?” he leaned closer to Julian, careful to hold his eye contact. Not backing down. “Seems to me that dragging out a dead legacy will always be a waste. Opportunity shows itself to those who look forwards. Not those stuck in the past.” 

.

Julian’s temper, his inability to stop himself rising to buck off the constraints of any authority, he knew it displayed a lack or loss of control that would always draw too many an eye. Their flaws were all carefully sometimes overly disguised, it was only once they pressed at each other they found the empty, caved in spots to draw the closest thing to blood you could in a verbal duel. You didn’t have anything if you could not play the game that their upbringing forced upon them. 

“I believe we were attempting to convey the very same point, chap. Perhaps my wording may have been the issue.” He took a deep pull of firewhiskey and Monty raised his head briefly, short whiskers twitched in interest. Julian curled his lip. “I meant to say that its detestable to do so from the get go but then they still, further spit in the face of creativity by performing this... nonsense.” With one hand he swirled the drink before raising it, a daring tilt to one brow as he uttered, “to there being nowhere to go but onward.”

It was strange how things had subtly shifted once whatever had happened between Abraxas and Nicolas had fallen out, they’d been a far more regular fixture in one anothers lives once upon a time, even if they had mostly filled up space at a table in their memories.

arpyrites​:

Exotic Symbol Analyst, Level One, British Ministry of Magic, Whitehall. Exotic Symbol Analyst, Level One, British Ministry of Magic, Whitehall. If he repeated it more, thought the words denoting his errand out over and over, perhaps it would eventually work itself out. He had wasted away to nearly nothing in the atrium. By the time the unwilling sit-in had been over, Argo marched (rode the lift) to level two only to greeted by an empty office and not a single exotic symbol analyst to be found.

His whole day gone. He wouldn’t return to work empty handed of the translation needed nor with a tale of the attack that had to be done by copycat teens based on the level of thought gone into it. Or not anyone connected to Grindelwald at all. Someone he knew rather well or should know instead.

“He doesn’t like being called that.” Speaking before he looked, feet carrying him far away from the Ministry, a pop of apparation and back to the Alley that left his senses alight and head spinning in all the ways that made him tense and loose-limbed in equal measure, Argo squinted at the mess of fur in the man’s arms. “He’d stop scratching you if you used his name.”

Spinning on his heel, Argo shuffled his way around the odd display of dysfunctional parent and child relationships and thanked all that ruled above or below but definitely not here that Beryl was a darling angel who would never treat him with such disdain. Moggy. No wonder the cat was put off. “What is his name?”

Dark eyes snapped to him as Argo was fully revealed. Julian couldn’t help rolling them the second they opened their mouth, he longed for a free hand to press to his temples. He made a short gruff noise in the back of his throat. He’d only found a surviving know-it-all. 

Both of the legs were very clearly supported but he worried that the thing’s adverse reaction was hurt rather than just fear. Julian tamped down his irritation and rubbed a bleeding finger against the scruff at the nape of its neck. 

“I don’t know their name, hence moggie? Sorry, didn’t realise it was a bloody Hippogriff,” Julian dutifully bowed his head in ‘respect’ to the cat, “your highness.” The kid stared at him, barely a scrap of wix lit up with a different but not unrelated static to his own, written in every line of his body. “You want to try random names, go ahead, we’ll be here a fucking while.” 

maeveless​:

“No need. I can pay for my own drink,” Maeve waves off the hostess, a saccharine smile plastered across her face. The Zabinis are a prideful bunch and Maeve has been taught to be watchful of who she owes favours to and who she lets hold a knife to her neck. It’s an irrational thing, to always say no to gifts and seemingly harmless drinks. But it’s a deeply ingrained habit at this point. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to be more careful around Julian Nott either. He holds too many cards set against her. He knows a little too much about her than she’d like. 

“Ofcourse. We wouldn’t want your flashy ride to get some dust and dents on it.” The words aren’t necessarily meant to be sarcastic but everything that comes out of Maeve’s mouth always sounds like a barb and a jab. And she isn’t exactly apologetic about it. 

Instead, Maeve places her glass back onto the table. Aware of his knees touching hers. She knows this maneuver like the back of her hand. She doesn’t mind it. If she were a much more proper lady, she would be scandalized. But she’s Maeve Zabini so she doesn’t move her knees, doesn’t mind the boldness.

“So how was your day?” she starts, face showing an inkling of interest, pulling together an almost genuine smile, knees accidentally moving and creating a friction. She knows they’re not here for small talk or simple niceties. Those have barely ever been on the table for the two. “Did anything fun other than organize whatever quaint little Gobstones tournament your department wants to do?”

Julian raised his eyebrows and shoulders incrementally to the waitress as she bid the venom dripping from Maeve’s smile across the table. There goes that apology. He’d long known he had more stamina than all of her various conquests and that it’d be a slow death but what a way to go. As the thoughts ticked silently through the rich darkness of her irises, he thought about his languorous posture, elbow tucked high on the back of the booth compared to her careful control. The sound of a sword glinting off of armour clangs unbidden in his head, the neatness of her curls could be cast steel for all he knew especially with a response like that. Nothing threw off serious chess players, strategists, like a wildcard, like him. Julian had always played high risk, high reward after all. 

“Ouch. Too right. Magdalene only has lovely things to say about you, Maeve.” He chuckled drily, raising her glass brazenly to his mouth for a sip just as the harried looking server with their tray started back toward them. It was replaced seamlessly just a heartbeat later, only the slight imprint of his lower lip left to betray them. The naming of his bike had happened so long ago that he scarcely remembered where it had come from but Mags had stuck. The sureness of Maeve’s movement into him, against him, was something he still didn’t fully realise he’d come to rely on. 

“Lots of paperwork. I barely remember half of it, bureaucracy is a bitch. Yours?” The note of interest only remained because of the mischievousness, he knew this much. “Do you even know what Quidditch does for this economy, annually? Or how many accidents happen? People even die during Gobstones tourneys if the competition is fierce enough.” 

When Eva’s mother unexpectedly came home.

[does an evil little monologue that pisses you off]

maeveless​:

These days, Muggle London feels almost like a solace to Maeve, a more comforting place to go to when she wants to stroll and wander around aimlessly. It’s quieter. And its streets are safer than the magical streets, free from the maniacs that currently lurk in the dark corners of Diagon Alley. Sure, the buildings aren’t technically safe and almost everything is closed for repairs. But somehow, it’s less chaotic than the Wizarding World.

Maybe it’s the degree of disattachment, the fact that Maeve could hardly care about what goes on in the Muggle world. The fact that their ruins and messes do not affect her in any way, that their problems are harmless to her. She likes that about disappearing into the Muggle world, the insignificance of her actions in it.

Today, she sits once again at one of the finer hotel bar’s booths, enjoying her glass of whiskey. Absentmindedly checking the time on the clock and keeping watch. He should be here any minute now, she notes, finishing the last of her whiskey and flagging a waitress down for a refill. She’s just about to take a sip of her refill when she hears his voice.

Averting her gaze away from her glass, she raises an eyebrow at him. “You sure took your time,” she comments, leaning back in her seat. “I almost left.”    

“Will you sit down?” she asks him.

Maeve curled a slim wrist to raise the glass of whiskey to her lips, reminding him eerily of the first time they’d run across each other after finishing school. If nothing else, the woman had an excellent taste in spirits. And yet here you are, his inner monologue responded unprompted to her words. Contrary to popular belief he did indeed value his life enough not to verbalise the thought. 

This strange game of cat and mouse they’d been embroiled in for the last few years swung wildly between glacial frost, cold shoulders, icy looks and the wild heat of midsummer, scorching everything in their path. Julian was respected and tolerated in pureblood circles to a point, he was no one’s first choice for a public courting or betrothal and he preferred it that way. The secrecy had suited them both.

“Don’t I always? You know how I like to fly, my old parking space is perhaps a bit structurally unsound so I took the scenic route through the park.” Not many had the nerve to make Maeve Zabini wait for anything. He caught the hostesses attention with a lift of his hand. “Apologies, put the lady’s drink and the table under my tab. Nott. Cheers.” 

“Only because you asked me so nicely.” He acquiesced, leaning their knees together in a warm, bold line beneath the table. 

abrxasmlfoy​:

 Apparently it wasn’t enough that these establishments had an open door policy - they now extended their hospitality to pets. Abraxas could understand the appeal of a hound, he had plenty on his estate. They were loyal and useful companions. He was suspicious, however, of any creature who was so loyal to another. 

He tried to keep the distaste off his face as his gaze moved from the dog to its master. Abraxas had never felt truly comfortable around people he could consider a threat. He like to be the smartest, the richest and the most mysterious person in a room. Abraxas certainly believed he had the edge on Nott, but he hated how he could never be sure. 

“If only their motives had been so… benign” Abraxas shifted his body as he spoke, turning his attention fully on his new companion. “At least then we could be sure their riot had achieved its goal. Still would have made plenty of people upset, but might have appeared a little bit less useless.” 

.

It was common knowledge amongst the establishments dotted about the streets of Wixen London that if anyone complained too loudly about the terrier flopped across Julian’s feet that they’d be thrown out into the gutter a few moments later spitting blood and carrying their teeth to Saint Mungo’s wrapped in a little napkin. Possibly even earning a few bite marks to the shins for their trouble. Monty was perfectly trained, Julian had dedicated years of his life to ensure that his commands were law. 

There was the barest quiver to the man’s upper lip. It was the Malfoy stench-face that Julian associated with the entire line of blonde-haired purebloods. They were tricksy as anything as a family but exuded a deep insecurity whenever they showed their hand. Just as awful as Ian’s own clan, in their ways, weren’t they all on the sacred twenty-eight? Julian surveyed him right back, a languorous quirk to his mouth as Abraxas sized him up. He slowly licked his lips, more to prompt discomfort than anything else. ‘See something you like?’ was nearly spoken aloud before he could help it but Abraxas wasn’t likely to be provoked, so he remained silent. Besides, he was sitting across from Maeve’s unfortunate newest victim, oblivious to his coming fate of being used up and left out to dry. 

“Quite.” Julian hummed. “For the greater good’ more... good for nothing. It’s rather cheap to drag out a dead man’s legacy and not even do anything interesting.” 

Marcus: Hey, Brandy. You bigoted piece of shit! Brandy: You manure-looking shithead…! Saya: He’s drunk! I’ll deal with him!

dearlucretia​:

“And you know I hate it.” It’s a statement shrouded in a lie, a half-truth at best. The endearment prods at more tender spots than simply her hatred of feeling like some caged creature—it evokes memories that Lucretia would rather forget, ones that still sting to remember. It’s all too easy to linger in regret when those memories surface, of the days back at Hogwarts when all they needed to worry about was a homework assignment and she’d cared little what he called her. How things might be different now if their friendship hadn’t been torn asunder.

Not that it seems to matter that they’re friends no longer. The mask she wears these days may as well not exist if his remark is anything to go by, striking at the very heart of her. Lucretia bites back a bitter remark, a comment that she might not need to lock herself away if not for people like him—but it’s a near thing, bubbling at the tip of her tongue. “I don’t believe you for a second,” she says instead. “Nobody does anything purely out of the kindness of their heart.” Not anymore. Not in their world. Sometimes Lucretia wonders if she’s the only one that feels it so keenly.

“It’s irrelevant anyway. The whole ministry is locked down by the look of things, I doubt even you have a way out of that.” 

.

“And what, pray tell, are you going to do to stop me?” Julian sent her his most winning, shit-eating smile across the short gap between them. Rather than truly mocking her there was again a genuine dare to it. His whims dipped between sense; he wanted a rise from her, wanted her to burn with irritation but as soon as he caused the sting he was half caught on the youthful instinct carved into his bones long ago to soothe. He hardly remembered being good at it, comfort, once upon a time. 

Julian watched it snap into place behind her eyes, that shuttered and shielded look that he had seen too often at awful functions with their family. It was different, refined with age and the purse of her mouth but the same. Always the same. Lucretia’s next words startled a dry bark of laughter out of him. “Alright, fair point, out of the cruelness of my heart then.” If he was being honest with himself, he’d expected an accusation of not possessing one at all. 

“I have my ways, Creesh. Makes no odds to me what you believe.” The part of him concerned with her opinion had died years ago. 

status: open ​​ location: diagon alley  ​​ when: post-attack november, 1945

Julian had been released from the ministry just a few minutes prior, he surveyed the smoking remains of the foremost shopping street in Wizarding Britain with thinly veiled disgust. He could admire the beauty of destruction but this was pathetic, the losers rising up to save face after the conflict was already over. 

A pitiful sort of sound emanated from near the entrance for Knockturn, the thick wooden struts of the building adjacent jutted out crudely into the street like broken ribs and a pool of cobble debris had rained down beneath. It wasn’t something he’d usually concern himself with and he swept dark eyes across Diagon for someone, anyone else, to intervene. 

With a sigh he rolled the sleeves of his robes up, displaying the thick roping cords of his forearms and the tattoos that lived there. It was a slow process even with his wand and the strange bawling sound increased in volume the closer he got. Scarred hands hefted the final chunk of crumbling stone, revealing a pathetic looking cat trapped beneath a beam. 

The cat started hissing with a vengeance and his respect for the thing rose rather abruptly. Even though it wasn’t his natural vein of magic, due to his proclivity for violence he was no stranger to healing spells. Episkey, Reparifors, Ferula. Julian couldn’t tell if there was any damage internally though, even if the scratches and breaks seemed to be fixed. 

The thing started to try and drag itself away but Julian, against his better judgment, scooped it up and clamped it to his chest even as the claws shredded at him. His grip was firm but the hold gentle, looking at him, he seemed near impervious to the pain as if it were merely brushing him lightly with his tail. 

“Whose fucking moggy is this? Do you know?” 

pyritcs​:

WHO: [ OPEN ] WHERE: DIAGON ALLEY WHEN: THE ACOLYTE ATTACK, November 1945.

They’d smelt it first. 

Like any natural predator, smell was a primary sense — acrid notes of smoke and clouded dust, the electric hum of magic in the air that tickled at the back of the nostrils like an impending sneeze and overlying it all, the thick and savoury iron-rich notes of blood that hit the back of their palette like a secondary explosion, warm and acidic yet already beginning to spoil, seeping into cobblestones and the thirsty earth beneath them. London was a bloodthirsty city at the best of times. Aether worried at the razor edge of their teeth with their tongue, nose wrinkling faintly at a particularly pungent waft of smoke. 

Diagon would smell like blood for weeks.

Sound was a secondary experience, the rumble of broken stone and disturbed earth, the screams and the groans and the moans. It collided in a frenetic way, jarring and irritating against heightened senses as Aether strolled aimlessly through spilled rubble and drying blood, kicking at chunks of stone as good samaritans did their bit and the injured and trapped awaited help, the dead shrouded in whatever could be spared. As was often the case, Aether skirted around the edges of the roiling tragedy of humanity, but with a tip of their hat back out of their view they paused before the shattered store-front window of Flourish & Blotts, the crunch of glittering glass beneath their feet and stopped to inspect the inscription seared into the canopy above.

For the greater good. 

“A bit much, isn’t it?” 

.

Julian crunched through the shattered glass, fragments skittered madly away from his sure steps like serrated hailstones. He puffed air out through his mouth, the wrappings around his hands were splattered crimson in a manner that meant to most, whose blood it was was indistinguishable. Unless someone focused very closely on the rise and fall of the swell of his wide shoulders, he hid his rapid breathing well through near-closed lips.

Three duelists had been locked in an even matched fight over the ground floor flat, half of the front door had been blasted away from the look of the scorch marks. Smoke had lined his airways and the red mist had descended, his interference begun when he grabbed the first by the scruff of the neck and with one arm reverse-defenestrated the man through the living room window. Julian had slipped away before the Aurors had descended, satiated by the drop of adrenaline still making him hum. He quirked a grin to the person with a wry snort, mouth edged like a knife.

“Almost like they’re compensating for something.”