Morcant About Valerian's First Fiancée. @xsecretkeepers

"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.

"do you seriously think you're above the rules" the stupid ones yeah

who: morcant and valerian @xsecretkeepers, mention to alecto @ofcarrowisms where: delirium, alecto's bar in knockturn alley

"This is our new investment, my friend." Morcant raises his hands, as if showcasing the establishment to Valerian. "Resorting to places like those cheap pubs in Diagon Alley and Hogsmead is preposterous. For starters, we don't know what happens in the kitchen and only thinking about stepping a foot there makes me nauseous. We need a place for us, our kind. Alecto has a great moneymaker in her hands, here. If we invest, we can turn Delirium into the place where every respectable pureblood wixen goes to have fun, or... Discuss private matters. Think of private rooms, a secret speakeasy for exclusive guests." Confidence exhuded from his pores, as Morcant waved his wand and projected in the air an illusion of what the bar could become.

WHO: morcant nott & arden wilkes @ardenwilkes WHERE: st. mungo's hospital, blishwick wing WHEN: new wing at st. mungo's

As friends of years, there were things only Arden and Morcant knew of each other, and one thing nobody else knew was this: they made two Unbreakable Vows of their own. One was that they could never lie to each other, and the other was that they would never leave each other behind. However, there were still things he didn't feel entirely comfortable telling Arden yet. Like his newfound purist tendencies, that honestly scared Morcant himself. So, he brought up the next best thing: Arden's sister's marriage. ━ So, have you seen your sister lately? And Valerian? ━ Morcant asking. He couldn't bring himself to refer Valerian as Bryony's husband, even though that's exactly what he was. Morcant successfully held himself back from making a face, and that would be enough to convince anyone but Arden. ━ They seem to be pretty content.

Morcant: have you had any romantic or sexual experiences that made you realize something about yourself?

@bryonyparkinsons @xsecretkeepers Girls were objectively hot. Morcant had always known that. He liked girls, he'd had crushes before. Merlin, he'd been half in love with Bryrony for half of his life. When he looked at her, it was all sunshine and rainbows. She made everything seem simple. She was so good, Morcant genuinely thought they would get married someday. Maybe. He didn't know how that would work, because marriages were dysfunctionals by nature, and he didn't wanna risk ruining their friendship like that. If they got married, they would start fighting and it would all grow cold. Her blonde hair falling on her face, blue eyes that reminded him of a blue sky in a rainless day, and hands so soft... So small and soft, like she could heal every ache he had ever had. How smart she was, resourceful when she thought no one was looking, and how it broke his heart that her eyes were clouded with dreams she thought she couldn't have. If he could, he would pick her dreams from Yggdrasil itself and bring her in a silver platter. Morcant knew better, that marriages weren't meant to be happy. At the same time, there was his best friend. Things were easier when he didn't know he was in love with his best friend as well. It hit him on a saturday morning, after a day running around in the Nott Gardens like they didn't have a single worry. They were disgusting with sweat and mud, lying on the grass, too tired to get up. Valerian had his eyes closed, basking in the tiny ray of light that shone between the clouds. He had long eyelashes that rested against his high cheekbones. Morcant didn't realized he said that out loud. "You have long eyelashes." He blurted out, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Valerian suddenly opened his eyes, and Morcant felt like all the air had left his lungs. Fuck. He was in love.

where: ancestor's lanterns release, samhain festival, hogsmeade when: evening with: open

Morcant really hoped the departed people didn't have access to it beyond the veil. If they did, he was fucked. His heartfelt message to his grandfather, Cantakerous Nott, was along the lines of: "Dear grandfather, thank you for being an even worse paternal figure than my father. No wonder he is a raving lunatic, having you as his father. You are the one who sullies the noble and ancient name of the Nott family. I hope you rot in hell for the entire eternity. Fuck you. A big middle finger, your grandson."

He sighed in relief when the lantern was flying too high to be caugh, and hoped no one saw it. He was about to leave, when he stumbled on someone.

"Oh, pardon me. Sorry, are you okay? I hope I didn't damage your lantern." He asked politely, knowing the ceremony could be a hard time for some people.

just babe being in love throughout episode 5

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.

“Polo’s mothers might be lesbians, but they’re old, ok? They don’t get it. I don’t get it either, to be honest. I’m not going to pretend I’m modern, but– girls don’t dream of having a white wedding with two grooms, you know? It’s not what we were taught. I used to think that people were like two halves trying to make a whole, or like nuts and bolts. All you had to do was find that one piece that fit you perfectly. But Polo and I didn’t really fit together before. Then you showed up…and now we do fit together. You’re the piece we were missing. And, hell, when you find love, it sucks to have to let it go”

Polo/Cayetana/Valerio in Élite’s Season 3

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?