Just Babe Being In Love Throughout Episode 5

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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

Doctor Who Under the Lake | 9.03

“Golden child, Lion boy; Tell me what it’s like to conquer. Fearless child, Broken boy; Tell me what it’s like to burn.”

— oh darling, even rome fell // p.s.

Morcant: if you knew you were going to die tomorrow, what is one thing you absolutely have to resolve and/or do before then?

Call him crazy, but Morcant had his preparations in place for when he died. That's something only a few people knew about: how fucking paranoid he was. Underneath all the sweet smiles and good nature, there was a deeply neurotic and paranoid young man. He could try to say that it was a byproduct of the environment, but he didn't know how much truth there was in that statement. Elowen knew about it, she had his will in hand and his portrait hidden somewhere safe. He had letters for everyone he loved, telling what he thought they should be happy in his absence. That he loved them, and they should have a long, happy life. He wouldn't run desperately towards loved ones, making confessions that wouldn't have a tomorrow. Why would he tell Valerian and Bryrony that he loved them? He would die the next day, and there would be nothing to do. It wasn't fair to dump that on them and then die, they would have to live the rest of their lives with that in their conscience. Morcant wasn't a good person, but he wasn't about to condemn two people with a life filled with "what ifs". Things were better this way. Quiet and lonely. @nobelandloved @xsecretkeepers @bryonyparkinsons

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.

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?

MORCANT ELDRITCH NOTT — the chain-breaker

Comment your character’s name for an aesthetic based on our plot!

“I really want to kiss you.”

Jonah Hauer-King as Mo 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.

who: morcant and alecto @ofcarrowismswhere: delirium.

Alecto Carrow had a first-row chair for the savagery hidden in his heart. The rage, the fury, the blind thirst for destruction. She understood like few people, all the vicious heartache that came with having sharp edges. Except his came with no warning sign and a boyish charm—hers came with silky, flaming hair and blood red lipstick. — We want to invest in the bar. Parkinson and I. — He said, sipping his second glass of firewhiskey. It should burn, he thought, but it didn't. He wondered what that said about him. Maybe the same thing that explained why he couldn't call the man he was in love with by his first name. He couldn't, it would show in how entire face like the miseable, sappy bastard he turned into after Val had gotten married with Bry. — I'm fucking sick and tired of having to deal with angry mudbloods while I just want to have a drink in peace.