Who: Morcant And Bryrony @bryonyparkinsons Where: Conservatory, Nott Manor

Did Gamon know what he was doing? Absolutely not. Was that a common occurrency? Maybe. Was it wrong to lurk on his ex-boyfriend's doorstep because you didn't want to face him again and your father asked you to buy potions supplies? Hell no, he was not a fucking coward.

The Gryffindor sighed, watching as the other man flipped the "OPEN" sign and marked the store as available to receive customers. Now he had no excuse to procrastinate. Great.

He walked to the door, pushing it open with a sigh and closing it behind him.

"Er... Hello. Morning. I'm here as a client... I mean, I have a list of ingredients." He said, fumbling while trying to take a crumpled piece of parchment out of his pocket. By Godric's polkadotted pants, could he be more awkward? Please, someone take him down with an entire Hit Wizard team. "Can you help me?"

Open for business

Setting: Hexes and Jinxs Characters: Severus Snape & open

Severus Snape was not what many people would consider normal. He was far too skinny, too pale, too everything. No one was there to see the closed doors, to see the options close before your eyes. Yet he still lived; he kept going. He kept moving, growing, learning. He never could satisfy his hunger for knowledge, even now, as he returned to his shop on a lazy Sunday afternoon. His luggage was in one hand as he unlocked the door, happy to return.

Severus opened this shop two years ago and named it “Hexes and Jinxs.” It was his pride and joy that was the place he had had saved up for. This was his sanctuary, his home. In more ways than one, it had an apartment attached to the upper floor and a potion lab in the back. It was perfect. He used a simple spell to turn on the lights, humming a soft melody as he began to clean up. It had been a month since he had been in the shop now, and the dust annoyed him greatly. After spending a few minutes cleaning until he was satisfied, he put his luggage in the lab. He had planned to put it away later, but he instead started cleaning the lab. It didn’t take him too long to clean, mainly dusting off his supplies and checking his ingredients. Smiling once it was finished, he moved back to the front. Flipping the open sign, he started to check his stock, making sure everything was still okay. 

morc: how would you metaphorically describe your life and the journey(s) you've been on?

Barty Crouch Jr. was a small gift life dropped on his lap when things got hard. Not that Morcant was particularly deserving of it, he wasn't. And he knew that. Morcant was selfish, arrogant, greedy, evil, truly individualistic and filled with hubris. He was a liar, and he thought he was better than most people. He was the byproduct of centuries of sludge and madness, and that was fine with him, because at least he didn't appear to be as insane as he felt inside. If his life was a journey, Morcant was getting the shortcut with a smile and a picnic basket. Not because he deserved, but because he was the best kind of cheater there was. And it was okay, because Barty didn't really mind that about him. They were one and the same. Two fucking bastards in a single bastard picnic basket. It happed on a friday night, during one of the underground masked parties Alecto hosted at Delirium. Mouths touched, bodies hotly against each other and suppressed moans so nobody would hear. Things escaled to a level Morcant couldn't believe, and now, three weeks later, they lied together in Barty's flat. In Barty's bed.

"It's like you showed up in the right time, you know. Teeth baring, bright eyed and a fuck everybody attitude." Morcant whispered, fingers threading Barty's hair, short strands tickling his hand and giving him chills. "You deserve the world, Barty. I know you don't believe me, and that's okay, I don't believe I deserve anything good either. But I need you to know." Morcant got lost in Barty's sad eyes, his dark eyebags drawing him closer in a way that two magnets didn't normally attract each other. He could see himself in the way Barty screamed about his father, all the anger and resentment building up inside. When the Crouch boy appeared vulnerable with Morcant, unlike the invulnerable wall of attitude he gave most people... It drove Morcant to start petty fights with Crouch Sr. for no reason, feeding the enmity between the aurors and the unspeakables. "Everything is shit right now, so at least we're together here. Whatever you need, I'll be there, no questions asked." If Morcant ended up dying, he would send Barty a letter telling him to be happy, because that would make his father miserable. @bcrtiesjr

         “  you look just like your mother.  ”                                                                          i guess i do carry her tenderness well         “  you both have the same eyes.  ”                                                                          because we are both exhausted         “  and the hands.  ”                                                                          we share the same wilting fingers         “ but that rage.           your mother doesn’t wear that rage.  ”                                                                          you’re right.                                                                          this rage is the one thing                                                                          i get from my father.

who: morcant and regulus @impcrios where: room of prophecies, department of mysteries, ministry of magic

Neither of them knew, but both Morcant Nott and Regulus Black had already been fucked over by narrative before they were even born. Perhaps they knew, in the same self-aware arrogance where they fished they self-loathing, bit by bit. They didn't know what the Moirai would spun for them in the fabric of fate. Since they worked for the Room of Prophecies in the Department of Mysteries, some would call that poetic justice. The Nott heir stood by one of the shelves, watching the long line of prophecies with the intent of someone listening to music. Crystal balls that looked inofensive enough, but he knew people that had gone crazy while working there. Lucky him, he was halfway there, maybe that's why he almost didn't feel the pull. Working there during midnight was peaceful and eerie, which was his mood of preference when studying their cases. You couldn't be too comfortable over there. — Black. — He nodded to Regulus as he saw him. For someone with the social skills Morcant had —you get more flies with honey—, not knowing how to approach the topic was disquieting. He couldn't exactly be blatant and outright ask him what he wanted to know. — Did you see anything missing or out of place in your hand? He asked, looking closely to the other's face with a somber sort of respect. It was the best resemblance of friendliness he could emulate in the present circunstances.

THE MOST ANCIENT AND NOBLE HOUSE OF NOTT

"The Notts? They're a reserved bunch, that's for sure. Don't know what they're hiding, being recluse like that. Maybe being antisocial runs in the family. The current Lord Nott, Geraint, he's a hothead just like his father. The son, Morcant, ain't half-bad, but he's just not that important yet, you know?"

click the read more to read the family's lore!

Head of the Family: Geraint Nott

Family Crest/Emblem: the Gordian Knott made out of moving snakes.

Motto: "Strength lies in legacy."

Other Symbols: the Unbreakable Vow, since the most used version was created initially by the Nott family. It also symbolizes loyalty and the binding nature of their magical practices. Ancient runes used in warding and protection, reflecting their deep understanding of arcane magic.

Location (Wizarding Community or Region) and Headquarters: The Nott family resides primarily in Nott Manor, a sprawling estate located in the remote hills of England. The manor is known for its labyrinthine architecture and its countless magical protections, warding the family’s magical knowledge and treasures.

Notable Members:

Aldric Nott: The first known member of the Nott family, Aldric wrote the Nott Code, a foundational text that established many of the family’s core principles regarding secrecy, purity, and mastery of magic. His contributions to early magical theory laid the groundwork for the family’s legacy.

Fenrir Nott: The visionary who constructed Nott Manor, Fenrir was instrumental in the establishment of the family’s headquarters, embedding powerful wards into its very foundations. His craftsmanship in both magic and architecture ensured the family’s protection for generations.

Amaryllis Nott: Through her marriage, Amaryllis played a crucial role in rebuilding the Nott Library after a devastating fire in the 1800s destroyed much of the family’s written history. She meticulously restored not only the physical structure of the library but also its vast collection of rare texts, preserving the family’s knowledge for future generations.

Vivienne Nott: Vivienne consolidated the magical practices and rituals of the Nott family, compiling them into the Grimoire of Nott. This tome remains a sacred and carefully guarded family heirloom, ensuring that their magical heritage is passed down in an organized and accessible manner.

Augustus Nott: A highly influential figure, Augustus Nott briefly held the position of Minister of Magic. His tenure was marked by his strong political influence, though his tenure was overshadowed by the Nott family’s association with more controversial pureblood ideals.

Alaric Nott: Alaric helped popularize the Unbreakable Vow throughout wizarding society, making it a standard tool for securing loyalty and obedience among magical families and factions. His contributions solidified the family’s reputation as master practitioners of binding magic.

Isolde Nott: A noted scholar, Isolde was part of the research team that developed the binding magic within the Statute of Secrecy. Her work is considered one of the cornerstones of modern magical law, ensuring that magical society remains hidden from Muggles.

Cantakerous Nott: In 1930, Cantakerous wrote the controversial Pureblood Directory, a compendium of all known pureblood families, their genealogies, and magical allegiances. His work fueled the rise of pureblood supremacist ideology within the wizarding world.

Years of Existence (or traceable history): The Nott family is believed to trace its origins back to Celtic times, although much of their early documentation was lost in a devastating fire at the Nott Library in the 1800s. Current records confirm their lineage back to the medieval period, spanning over 800 years of existence. Their magical practices are rooted in ancient, often forgotten arts, passed down and guarded through generations.

Level of Tradition and Heritage: The Nott family is deeply committed to the preservation of their magical heritage, viewing their traditions not only as a source of power but as a sacred responsibility. The fire in the 1800s that destroyed much of their early history only strengthened this resolve, making them even more protective of their legacy. Their commitment to maintaining magical purity and lineage ensures that each generation upholds the family’s rich intellectual pursuits and dangerous magical practices.

Reputation in the Wizarding World: The Nott family is seen as an enigmatic and aloof entity within the broader wizarding world. While they are acknowledged for their exceptional magical power and influence, their preference for secrecy, and their occasional alliances with darker forces, leave them viewed with suspicion. Some in the wizarding community see them as an intellectual powerhouse, while others accuse them of being insular and dangerously obsessed with maintaining control over arcane knowledge. In recent decades, following Cantakerous and Geraint's allegiance to Voldemort’s ideology, their association with pureblood supremacy has intensified, shifting their reputation toward one of more overt radicalism.

Core Beliefs and Ideology: The Nott family firmly believes that the purity of their bloodline is the key to preserving their magical power and heritage, a belief that was solidified after the Witch Hunts of the Middle Ages. They uphold that magical knowledge should be guarded above all else, and that mastery over the darkest magics is the ultimate path to power. The family views the preservation of their ancient magical practices as paramount, ensuring that no outsider—Muggle or magical—can challenge their place in history. This ideology stems from a deep-seated fear of persecution and a desire to protect their kind from ever being hunted again.

Family Rules and Codes:

Loyalty to the family comes before all other allegiances.

Secrecy is paramount—family matters and magical practices are kept hidden from outsiders.

The family must never lose their magical heritage. Marriage is seen as a means of strengthening the family line, not for political or financial gain.

The Unbreakable Vow is used to ensure loyalty and obedience, particularly within family disputes.

Traditions and Rituals:

The Oath of Nott, a magical ritual where new family members swear an oath of loyalty, often involving the Unbreakable Vow.

Regular private study of ancient magical texts, particularly those concerning rune magic, warding, and dark arts.

A highly secretive rite of passage for heirs of the family, in which they must demonstrate their mastery of an ancient magical artifact or curse in order to solidify their claim to leadership within the family.

Distinctive Traits: Members of the Nott family tend to have pale skin, dark hair, and piercing eyes. There is often a coldness to their demeanor, and they carry themselves with a certain air of superiority and mystery, reflective of their powerful magical lineage.

Recent History: check Morcant's intro!

who: morcant and dolores @apparitixns where: attic, ministry of magic.

Morcant had a soft spot for power hungry people. He'd never had anything soft in his life, so it's safe to assume that this version of softness was dangerous and calculating. The same softness he had for pythons. Respect, but he knew better. When he looked at Dolores Umbridge, Nott saw a woman who could very well run an entire show moving only her pinky finger. No sweat broken, only big brown eyes that haunted you back. As the heir of an important family like the Notts, as the son of Astrid Nott, Morcant never slouched. Posture straight like a ruler, broad shoulders and raised chin. The same charming glint in his green eyes as his mother, maintaining eye-contact and moving with easiness. He moved like the world belonged to him, confident and smart, it was innate. The friendly and honey-eyed, well, that was taught. Or better, drilled until it became innate as well. — Dolores Umbridge, as I live and breathe. How are you doing? Congratulations on the promotion, you deserve it. — He greeted, with more honesty than he would care to admit.

Morcant about Valerian's first fiancée. @xsecretkeepers

Gamon looked at the whole exchange with an amused smile in his eyes, as he followed Ted to the exam room.

"I don't know, Healer Ted. Maybe I'm gonna have a sudden case of uncontrollable giggling if you keep being that funny, and that's gonna be your fault." He grinned cheekily, settling comfortably in his usual place.

Most healers in St. Mungus knew his case. The big shot quidditch player who ended his career way too early after he fell from a broom, and it never healed properly. Some medical gibberish about magical injuries, all he knew was that they couldn't heal his broken bones like every other time he fell from a broom. It was the end of the line for him.

It had been a few months since that whole drama happened. He was on the way to recovery, steadily receiving treatments from capable healers, all so that he could dream of getting on a broom again. Not to play, that he knew would never happen again. But he missed having full control of his limbs, thank you very much.

"I'm here for the treatment. I think there was something about checking the progress, if the bones healed in the right places without magic interference." Gamon explained, trying his best to not show how hurt he still was, inside.

setting: st mungo's, third floor: ward for potion and plant poisoning featuring: ted tonks & open !

"You're late.”

That was the monotonous greeting Ted received as he crossed onto the third floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies & Injuries, swapping out his signature brown leather jacket for the bright green robes healers wore as their uniform. Pulling out the lollipop he'd had in his mouth, Ted stuck out his tongue, which was tinted an electric blue from the sucker. "C'mon, Healer Boyle — you know, I'm actually fifty minutes early as far as time in Cabo Verde is concerned," he replied cheekily, earning an eye roll as a chart was shoved at his chest.

"Relative to where you are now, Healer Tonks, you're late, and on the day we’re dealing with an overflow of patients from other wards. Room five," the Chief Healer motioned with a flourish of his hand, setting Ted onto his first patient of the day. “And lose the lolli, will you.”

With a sigh, Ted twisted in the direction of the exam room in question, leaving Healer Boyle with a, "Don't ever let anyone tell you that you're no fun, Boyle," in a tone that was as friendly as it was sarcastic. Tapping a jaunty tune with his knuckles against the door before pushing it open, lollipop still in his mouth, Ted Tonks gave his patient a large smile. Plopping down onto a stool beside them, he caught glimpse of the Daily Prophet on the bedside table and had to bite down on the lollipop stick hard to keep from grimacing at the sight. That was hardly appropriate for sick people, or so he thought. Especially given what it was reporting on. "Wotcher!” Came a quirky greeting from the healer. “Someone’s having an eventful morning, hm?” Brows rose, clearly not referencing the newspaper and the distress it was causing everyone but instead the fact they were here, in an exam room in St. Mungo’s. “Now then, how about you tell Healer Ted what's going on and I'll see about getting you right and on your way," he spoke with an even and low voice, warm and open so as to break any tension his patient may feel. “Doesn’t look like a case of uncontrollable giggling, so we have that going for us.”

𝑺𝑬𝑳𝑭-𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑨 𝑰. the aftermath is secondary (but it always comes)

All you do is scream inside, boy. Where's your goddamn courage?

"You are nothing more than a senile old man, dragging the family name through the mud." You sneer, handsome features become scarlet, because that vein in your neck pumps blood that is trying to escape and stain your hands, and you're desperate to be anything but your father.

"Our lineage? It's cursed, almost as bad as the Black family." You judge, like entitlement isn't also a curse or a language that you speak fluently, like your high horse couldn't topple you and all your little machineries.

"We are the byproduct of centuries of inbreeding, father. If you think we cannot get much worse than that, you have another thing coming." You rage, self-hatred running rampant in your veins like your hounds from hell race through the Nott Grounds at night, desperate to rip off arms of intruders.

Nobody but your mother and sister know about the screaming matches you have with your father. Acting like two savages, vocal chords echoing through corridors silenced by Perpetual Vows for thousands of years. It's not about what he's doing, it's the fact that you could do better.

You could do better, and that kills you inside. Because you just can't wait, can you? You cannot wait for your time to shine and get your grubby little hands on the family crown. Your thirst for power seeping from each pore, glinting in your green eyes and hiding in the shadows of your boyish face. You're too young to be the leader, and you're too old to be dismissed as unthreatening, so now you're left to your own resources.

And your argument is based on a fragile foundation, made of cracked stone that is being kept together by hardened gold. It's not a lie, no. But that's not entirely the truth either. You've never been too good at those anyway.

Well, you're made of mead, boy.

The drink of the gods: a result of fermented honey, and fermenting is just another word for rotting. You're rotten honey. Sweet, but acid. You get drunk on your own hubris.

If you need to tell yourself that your father is supporting an outsider, forgetting about your traditions... So, be it. Tell yourself that.

You can be a drunk, yes, not stupid. There's a thought snaking through the crevices of your brain, balancing doubt in the tiny point of a sharp knife.

Should you support? Or should you not?

It's a growing obsession that's been corrupting your fragile ego for years. Should you support the opposite side just to antagonize? Or should you join and prove yourself to be a much better follower than your own old man?

It's not about what's right, of course not. Why would it be? The thought doesn't even cross your mind, yet.

But you don't want to be made of a fool either, so you ask yourself who is even this Voldemort fellow. After all, if he were from a pureblood family, you would have heard about his folks sooner.

Every pureblood can trace their lineage, registered on family trees and parchments with Dark Magic older than most houses. You would have seen him in any of the dusty tapestries, would have seen portraits of his grandparents painted and showcased on oppulent walls of your friend's manors.

You ask yourself who are his parents, his ancestors. They are so worried about pureblood supremacy, but are they even making the right questions? Or any question at all?

Are you the fool? Are you the only one who can't see it? Are you making the right choice? You couldn't be. For that, you would have to make a choice, and your choice was not even choosing at all.

The aftermath of the festival prodded the knife into your skin, balancing a fragile position. You know you will have to make a decision soon. Avoiding can only be done to a certain point, and the aftermath can be secondary, but it always comes. It's a snake blackening your skin or a stain blackening your face in the tapestry.

Voldemort is just means to an end for the pureblood society. A leader and a scapegoat. He is merely saying what other people have thought for years, making waves and decisions for those who are too coward.

People like you. Who are greedy, and ambitious, and too comfortable in their thrones like a god licks drops of ambrosia running between their fingers.

All you do is scream inside, boy. What is your choice?

WHO: gamon ollivander & open WHERE: three broomsticks WHEN: saturday night

Naturally, the Three Broomsticks was quite crowded on a saturday night. He had most weekends off from the shop, and he liked to spend sometimes catching up with his friends and a butterbeer. When he saw a familiar face sitting alone, he ordered an extra butterbeer and stitched his way through the crowd, heading there.

"Hey, how are you doing? I saw you alone here and thought you might want a butterbeer for company." Gamon slid the other butterbeer to the other person's direction. "Is everything okay?"