Character Posters: garrick Ollivander

It was a silly little thing, really. Odin, his black kneazle, had a morbid curiosity towards thestrals. Morcant's familiar tended to be a stern and proud creature, but the omen of death brought out a completely different side to him. The kneazle could see and feel magical aura, so he was invaluable during Unspeakable missions, and he rarely allowed himself to behave like a... Well, cat.

Even if he truly wasn't one, and merely thinking about Odin as a cat would offend his familiar, but thank Salazar he didn't know Legilimency yet. It was just a matter of time, though, Morcant was sure. Kneazles would still rule the world, Voldemort wouldn't stand a chance against them. Just look at their paws.

"Well, not really. I'm just here to indulge the child. It's not like I can say no to him. Odin has a morbid curiosity towards thestrals, maybe it's because he sees magical aura. Thestrals are truly unique creatures. Well, are you? Getting a ride?"

𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓 | 𝑳𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏: 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑭𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕

The first time Frank had seen one, he was just shy of his sixteenth birthday and had wandered toward the carriages—he had almost gotten into one when he stilled completely. The black leathery horse-like creature peered at him, looking at him as if he had done it countless times—it wasn't the kind of beauty that Frank had been privy to, not until he lost his father.

Even tonight, lanterns lit the pathway as people gathered around - the thestrals were just as beautiful and in a way, the grief was just as raw, even after all these years, but it didn't consume him like it once did. feeling a presence next to him, "are you going for a ride?" a small smile stretching his lips as he looked over.

Doctor Who Under the Lake | 9.03

Morcant was, after all, a Nott. A snobby, arrogant, stuck-up nose pureblood. He was self-aware of that, and he wasn't about to lie to himself and say he didn't have a reason to be. He was all of that, simply because it was owed to him and his legacy.

That said, all he felt was contempt and disgust. It took all of him to act like a gentleman, supress what he really felt and try to have fun. His entire life, Morcant always believed that you get more flies with honey, than vinegar. It wasn't like him to express what he truly felt, even if all he wanted to do now was bitch about it.

"Well, a single corridor in the Nott Manor has more cursed artifacts than this. Come on, Lucius. We both know that we came here for a comedy exhibit, especially if some stupid kid tries to rob it." He sighed, imagining the scene. "That would be a good laugh, wouldn't it?"

𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂: open | 𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽: zonko's, cursed artifact exhibition

a  slender  finger  slides  along  the  sleek  marble  of  the  countertops  before  him,  already  coated  with  a  thin  layer  of  dust  for  special  affects.  lucius  could  tell,  even  to  the  naked  eye,  that  the  so  called  cursed  artifacts  scattered  around  the  joke  shop  were  also  jokes.  pieces  of  plastic  disguised  as  actual  artifacts  hidden  around  the  wizarding  world.  ❝  they  have  to  know  they  aren't  fooling  anyone,  ❞  lucius  says  aloud  to  no  one  in  particular.  ❝  although  it  would  be  quite  the  event  if  someone  were  to  try  robbing  this  place  for  a  piece  of  junk.  ❞

Jonah Hauer-King in The Flatshare (2022)

"Oh boy, if you think you're the crazy one, you're not hanging out with the right people." Gamon joked, as he glanced the book in question, and returned his look to Daisy. He hummed in interest as he picked up the nearest copy next to him, and nodded approvingly. "Sounds interesting, I'm gonna give it a shot."

Gamon was a lover of all things muggle. As far as he knew, his own biological father was a squib and his mother a halfblood. He didn't have memories of them, but the Gryffindor guessed that it should somehow explain why he felt compelled to keep up with technology and comic books. Muggle music, in particular, was very interesting.

"My pet crow is named Bruce Wayne. You know, Batman. He likes to steal shiny things, I think I'm very funny." He shrugged, rolling his eyes at himself, and back at her with a smile. "After I buy right now, can you sign the copy?"

Who: Daisy & Open Location: Diagon Alley Coffee Shop When: Early Morning

Daisy was exhausted. She hadn't been sleeping well, her brain was too focused on everything that had been going on in her world.

This had been her and Jasper's favorite coffee shop to frequent in Diagon Alley. It had been difficult, returning, but everything couldn't stop because he was gone. It was cozy with a few bookcases towards the back and a small sitting area. She wished she could get comfortable, but she had a meeting soon. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she saw it on the bookshelf closest to her. My Year as a Muggle. It was here. It was almost like a sign.

"It never gets less weird seeing my book on bookshelves out and about. It's so cool but still so weird. Sorry, I'm rambling, mostly talking to myself. You must think I'm crazy--" Daisy felt her cheeks flush, embarrassed.

“The big screens, the plastic-made dreams Say you don’t want it, say you don’t want it It’s our world, the picture-book girls Say you don’t want it, say you don’t want it Don’t you ask me if it’s love, my dear Love don’t really mean a thing ‘round here The fake scenes the plastic-made dreams Say you don’t want it, say you don’t want it”

PINNED POST !

this is a private roleplay account written by silver (they/she), for morcant nott, in the universe of @wingardiumfm.

i do not support or agree with jk rowling in any way, shape or form. none of her views reflect my personal views. in addition, the characters views on certain subjects might not reflect my views, as they're fictional characters inserted in an ongoing plotline.

THREADS [ 021 ]

drafting reply [ felicity, barty, severus, melis, alecto, valerian, bryony, amycus, cassian, arden, sirius, andromeda, dolores, regulus, elowen ]

waiting for my turn [ winnie, arden, bryony & valerian, alecto, narcissa ]

morcant's links

character intro / aesthetic tag / musing tag / wanted plots

pinterest board / spotify mixtape / nott family lore

         “  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.

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: morcant nott & alecto carrow @ofcarrowisms WHERE: st. mungo's hospital, blishwick wing WHEN: new wing at st. mungo's

━ If I had a galleon for mudblood in this room, I could buy you a new pub. ━ Morcant rolled his eyes, as he took a drag from the cigarette he got from Arden. A smoke break was a welcome relief from the constant smiling, which wasn't something he usually minded, but that was starting to put a strain on his facial muscles. ━ Disgusting. Which is rich, considering this shit bloody stinks, but certainly less than the mudbloods. Want one?