WHO: Gamon Ollivander & Barty Crouch Jr. @bcrtiesjr WHERE: Ollivanders, Diagon Alley WHEN: Midnight

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.

"Mrs. Parkinson, it's great to meet you. The festival looks much better now that you're here." Morcant smiled courteously to Bryony, as if they didn't grow up in the same social circles their whole lives.

There was a playful undertone underneath all the politeness, of course. It was interesting to see his childhood friend as a married woman. But, then, that was probably his fault for not having settled down yet.

"I don't believe I'm the best person to have an opinion on tapestries, since the only tapestry I truly remember is the Nott's family tree tapestry. But I do enjoy the Yuletide spirit, it's my favorite." Morcant said, settling comfortably beside her.

Who: Bryony & Open Where: Samhain Festival, Market Stalls

Bryony had thought long and hard how her re-entrance back into society post-wedding would go, and it hadn't been this damned festival. They were supposed to attend a gala last weekend for one of the many charities she helped out with, but of course, she had been sick and they couldn't attend. And now her husband goes and tells her at the last minute that he would join her later, that something had come up. She was not pleased but she was unwilling to sit at home for another weekend. So here she was, hoping he would come and find her before it was too late.

"The holiday may be over tomorrow, but the season will go on for a while. It wouldn't be particularly tacky to keep this up, would it?" Bryony mused to the person beside her, showing them the tapestry that she had been looking at.

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

Doctor Who Under the Lake | 9.03

The Flatshare (2022).

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

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'S POV UNDER THE CUT -- (i'm considering it's his first fiancée, not bryrony!)

How pathetic was he, again? Morcant was supposed to be happy for Valerian. It was his best friend's engagement party, he was going to be the best man. The best man at his best friend's wedding.

The man Morcant had been in love with for years.

But the worst part? That wasn't even the reason why Morcant was sad about the whole thing, no. He already came to terms that he can't be in a relationship with Valerian, that his best friend didn't like him back and it was impossible. So no, he wasn't devastated for the whole unrequited love situation.

He was devastated because Valerian looked miserable.

Maybe he could try to fool someone else, but not Morcant. The way his eyes danced across the room, as if looking for a way out, somewhere to run. His hands resting on the abs Morcant knew he had, but not for any biblical reason, but because he was the best friend. It was like Valerian was trying his best not to puke.

It wasn't obvious, it was just... Morcant knew Valerian more than anyone else.

From his bed hair in the morning, to the way his bright eyes narrowed when he was sarcastic, to the shape of his lips when he said Morcant's name. He knew everything. Or so he thought.

He wasn't stupid, his best friend wasn't getting married for a burning love towards his wife. It was duty. But, still... Why was he looking that miserable? Did something else happened?

Morcant wanted to cradle the Parkinson's face in his hands, caress his cheekbone with his thumb and feel the warmth of his forehead against his lips. Oh Merlin, it felt like a punch in his gut.

"Of couse I'm going to be the best man, are you kidding? They look great together." Morcant replied to the other person, as if his gut wasn't tearing itself into shreds.

And he was good at it. Acting like his heart didn't belong to Valerian, like he didn't want to press him against the wall and show him the filthiest sounds a body could make.

Morcant was the best at lying through his teeth. He even lied to himself.

for valerian: what is something or someone you know you can't afford to lose? how far are you willing to go to make sure you don't lose it/them?

Valerian had drunk too much, but he didn't think he could be blamed for that. It was a party after all, his own engagement party. He was allowed to celebrate. It was definitely the alcohol that made him sick to his stomach, not the thought of marrying this woman. They'd been together for years, why would the thought of the engagement make him feel like he wanted to run, and then keep running, until no one could find him.

His eyes drifted, not for the first time, to the other end of the room. He had never been good at keeping his eyes off his best friend. They sought him out against his will. It was easy between them, with a look he would know, know if both of them were engaged in mind numbing, banal conversation, or if one needed rescuing from an overbearing relative. The worst times were when he didn't look back. When Valerian was left to wonder what the person had said to capture his attention, if this would be the one to steal him away. It was so easy, in those moments, to imagine pulling the other into a side room. Whispering all the unspoken things, demanding his attention and more. But then more images followed, of rejection, of things going horribly wrong, of Valerian left alone, without the only person who knew how to care about. Those images terrified him far more than simply allowing things to remain as they were. Someone approached Valerian from behind, evidently having noticed his mood. "Everything ok?" They asked, a hand settling on his shoulder. "Yeah man, I'm fine."

GAMON ARTHIT OLLIVANDER ・ 24 ・ HE & HIM ・ FC PAVEL PHOOM  ・ HALFBLOOD ・ ORDER OF THE PHOENIX ・ GRYFFINDOR ALUMNI  ・  RETIRED CHASER FOR FALLMOUTH FALCONS ・ WAND SPECIALIST AT OLLIVANDERS (NIGHT SHIFT) ・ MENACE TO SOCIETY

the warmth of a found family, taking the night shift because you can't sleep anyway, sharing secrets and a bottle of firewhiskey with a friend after a rough night, the red hot feeling of adrenaline when you make the winning goal on a quidditch match, sharing compliments to random people in the streets, a worn out leather jacket with bottoms of muggle bands.

✧ WAND: Aspen, Unicorn tail hair, 10 inches, and rather bendy. ✧ PATRONUS: The seal. The seal patronus is one that shows a playful soul, that seeks excitement in all of it’s ventures. These are not studious individuals, as they are too busy trying to feel as free as they can. They have the ability to light up a room, and they know it, and like to use it to the best of their ability. They are never ones to let their feelings get the best of them, because they are too wrapped up in everything else to care very much about what other people think of them. They would much rather be busy exploring life. ✧ MIRROR OF ERISED: He sees himself backpacking through Asia with someone by his side, he can't see the face, but he knows it's his husband. ✧ BOGGART: His whole family getting captured and tortured by Death Eaters. ✧ FAMILIAR AND OTHER PETS: His familiar is a crow named Bruce Wayne, which also acts in the place of an owl.

BACKGROUND

Gamon Arthit Ollivander was born in Thailand but raised in England almost before he could remember. His parents were a half-blood witch and a squib, and while they didn’t exactly fit into the magical world’s traditional expectations, they made it work. His mother, a fierce duellist, and his father, a professor for a muggle university, were always up for adventure. When Gamon was just four years old, tragedy struck. His parents were killed in an attack by Grindelwald’s followers, but by some twist of fate, he’d been visiting the Ollivanders that day and was spared. His godparents, Garrick and Mathieu, immediately took him in, and that’s when his real family story began.

Growing up in the Ollivander house, chaos was the norm. Garrick and Mathieu, along with their three other adopted kids, welcomed Gamon into the fold like he’d always been there. The whole house was a bit of a mad circus, with everyone bickering, laughing, and getting into trouble together. But through it all, Gamon learned that family wasn’t about blood—it was about loyalty, love, and sticking together no matter how much of a mess you made of things.

At Hogwarts, Gamon’s Gryffindor spirit was obvious from the start. He didn’t care much for schoolwork—he was more of an action guy. Quidditch was his thing. By the time he was 16, he was already getting noticed for his skills on the pitch. He joined the Gryffindor team as a chaser in his second year and, while he had zero interest in becoming team captain, the game was everything to him. The rush of adrenaline when he scored a goal, the thrill of the crowd—it was addicting.

But it wasn’t just the game that caught his attention. Puberty hit, and Gamon found himself feeling a little… distracted. He couldn’t stop looking at the hot, sweaty chasers and beaters on the other teams. It started out as just a pure appreciation for the sport, but soon enough, it dawned on him: he liked the game, but he really liked the sweaty dudes who played it. The realization hit him one evening after a particularly brutal match, when he caught himself staring a little too long at one of the other team’s chasers, his muscles gleaming with sweat as he caught the Quaffle. That was when Gamon realized he was gay. At first, he wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge, but as he navigated the more chaotic parts of his teenage years—mostly spent sneaking into parties, testing the boundaries of what was acceptable, and partying with his friends—he grew more comfortable with who he was.

The parties were a whole other world. Gamon thrived in the high-energy chaos of the Hogwarts social scene. He had no problem sneaking away to whatever hidden corner of the castle or nearby pub the older students were frequenting, always looking for the next high. Whether it was a good laugh or a new romantic interest, it didn’t matter to him. As he got older, he learned to live for those moments of unbridled fun—fueled by adrenaline, firewhiskey, and the thrill of being surrounded by friends who shared the same chaos.

After graduating at 22, Gamon wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with his life. He’d never been big on plans. He had a minor-league Quidditch career first, and after that, the Falmouth Falcons offered him a spot as a starting chaser. He played for a few years, loved every minute of it—the thrill of the game, the roar of the crowd, the camaraderie.

A few months ago, a bad fall during a match ended his career before it had really reached its peak. Gamon collided mid-air with a Holyhead Harpies player, shattering his leg and causing a severe magical concussion. St. Mungo’s worked on him for weeks, using potions and charms to heal the damage, but a lingering magical imbalance in his system left him with poor coordination and off-balance reflexes. No matter how much he healed physically, he couldn’t get back to full strength, and his Quidditch career was over. It was a hard pill to swallow, but the injury forced him to accept that his body had limits he couldn’t ignore.

The accident didn’t slow him down for long, though. He lived for that next adrenaline rush, and once he was sidelined from Quidditch, he found a new thrill: working the night shift at Ollivanders. The late-night wand repairs became a kind of peaceful rhythm, something he could do while the world was asleep, and it gave him time to figure out what he wanted next.

At some point during those late nights, Gamon started getting involved with the Order of the Phoenix. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. He’d always been a bit of an anarchist at heart—questioning authority, fighting against anyone who tried to impose rules on him or others. As the war escalated, he couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. He wanted to fight back. He was a Gryffindor through and through—loyal, brave, and maybe a little reckless. But above all, he knew this was his fight to take on.

Then there was Bruce. Bruce Wayne, Gamon’s crow. He’d found the little bird abandoned and half-starved one winter night. The name came easily. Gamon had always been into muggle comics, and the idea of a vigilante bird, a sidekick to his own chaotic life, just fit. Bruce was a bit of a troublemaker, always flying off with shiny things during his deliveries and adding them to his nest. Gamon didn’t mind; in fact, he thought it was funny. Bruce was, in his own way, a perfect fit for his life: unpredictable, cheeky, and always keeping things interesting.

PERSONALITY

✅ HONEST ・ BRAVE ・ STREET SMART ・ INTUITIVE ・ ATHLETIC ・ INDEPENDENT ・ CONFIDENT ・ LOYAL ・ CARING ・ PLAYFUL

❌ RECKLESS ・ REBELLIOUS ・ IMPATIENT ・ HOT-TEMPERED ・ POSESSIVE ・ CHAOTIC ・ IRREVERENT ・ HAS NO SELF-PRESERVATION

SKILLS & TALENTS

Adventuring: Gamon is always up for a spontaneous journey, whether it’s exploring unknown parts of the wizarding world or taking a risk on something new. His curiosity and desire for the next thrill often lead him into uncharted territory.

Quidditch Expertise: Having been a reliable chaser on the Gryffindor team and in professional Quidditch, Gamon once had top-tier agility, reflexes, and an uncanny ability to predict plays mid-air. Though he’s retired, the injury has left him with lingering issues that affect his balance and coordination. His broom no longer feels like an extension of himself, and his once-sharp instincts on the pitch have been dulled. While he can still hold his own in a casual match, he knows his prime is behind him.

Martial Magic (Dueling): Thanks to his wand's affinity for martial magic and his natural instinct for defense, Gamon excels in duels. His fighting style is reactive—quick to counter any attack with a move that's as unpredictable as his personality.

Wandlore & Crafting: Growing up in the Ollivander family, Gamon learned the art of wandmaking early on. He has a deep understanding of wand woods, cores, and the unique bond each wand shares with its owner. He's also excellent at repairs and maintenance.

Street Smarts: Gamon is quick on his feet, both physically and mentally. He’s great at reading people and situations, making him adept at getting himself out of sticky social or physical situations. He knows how to navigate tricky streets, whether it's in the wizarding world or the muggle one.

Befriending Strangers: Gamon has an easy time making friends because he genuinely cares about people. He wants to connect with others on a real level, whether it’s sharing a laugh, offering a comforting word, or just being there for someone in a moment of need. Gamon is the type who’ll strike up conversations with anyone, whether it’s in Diagon Alley or a seedy pub.

Risk Management (Sort of): Despite his reckless tendencies, Gamon has a surprising ability to assess risk in high-pressure situations. He might not always make the best decision, but he has a unique instinct for recognizing when things are about to go south—usually right before it happens.

Muggle Interests: Growing up with a muggle historian father, Gamon developed an appreciation for muggle history and culture. From comic books to rock ‘n’ roll, he’s got a broad knowledge of muggle life, which helps him relate to muggle-borns and understand the broader world.

Creature of the Night: Gamon has adapted to the nighttime shifts at Ollivanders, becoming incredibly efficient in dim light. His ability to work in the dead of night, without needing much rest, gives him an edge when handling the unpredictable nature of the late-night crowd.

Pranking & Mischief: Gamon’s quick thinking and mischievous sense of humor make him the go-to guy for pulling off elaborate pranks, whether it’s in Hogwarts' halls or a pub after hours. He knows exactly how to make someone laugh or get back at an enemy with a clever trick.

HE SUCKS AT THIS...

Patience for Theoretical Studies: While Gamon excels in practical magic, he struggles with the theoretical side of things. Complex charms, potions, or ancient spells are lost on him if he has to read about them for too long. He prefers hands-on learning and tends to gloss over anything too academic.

Attention to Detail: Gamon’s impulsive nature often causes him to miss the finer details in a plan. Whether it’s rushing through a wand repair or jumping into an Order mission without fully thinking things through, he tends to overlook the small stuff, which can backfire.

Following Orders: He has an independent streak that doesn’t mesh well with authority figures or following strict orders. It's not on purpose, he's just allergic.

Long-Term Planning: Gamon’s more about living in the moment, and he’s not great at thinking ahead or planning for the future. This shows in everything from his personal relationships to his career choices.

Impulsiveness: A classic trait of his, Gamon is often impulsive and makes decisions based on gut feelings rather than logic. Whether it’s diving headfirst into a fight or making a snap judgment about a person or situation, he tends to act before thinking, which leads to mistakes.

Self-Care & Organization: Gamon has a tendency to forget about his own needs in the chaos of his life. He’s not great at keeping things organized—his personal space can be messy, and he tends to push his health or mental well-being to the back burner in favor of the next adventure or fight.

Subtlety: When it comes to keeping secrets or being discreet, Gamon’s not exactly the most subtle person. He’s prone to making a scene, speaking his mind bluntly, or letting important information slip when it’s least expected.

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.