Work Text:
Character: Igor Karkaroff. Prompts: sunset, family. WC 150
Igor stood outside his shack, the sun’s last rays warming his face and aching joints. He was cold, tired and dirty; clearly too old for a life on the run. But it was better than the alternative.
“That’s your papa cracking an egg for your breakfast tomorrow,” his mother used to say on evenings like this, when the sky glowed the same deep orange as the yolks from the chickens on their farm.
It hadn’t helped. His father had been a great duelist, but even he couldn’t defeat a mob- of their Muggle neighbours- armed with pitchforks. He’d sacrificed himself so his family could escape.
Igor blinked away the memories; a sunset was merely proof that he’d survived another day.
As he ducked back inside, he didn’t notice that the lengthening shadows under the trees at the end of the field were starting to resemble those of dark, cloaked figures.
Augustus Rookwood, grimace. WC 149
“Shut up, Algie,” Augustus drawled, pinching the bridge of his nose and wishing it was his brother’s windpipe. “All this moaning is souring my wine. It’s your own fault for marrying a woman cleverer than you; inevitable though it was.”
His little brother turned his latest marital tirade into a silent grimace, which was a vast improvement. They were living proof that all the Rookwood genetic eggs had been put into one basket; Algie was weak, stupid, and a coward to boot. He’d probably take it out on Nia later, but that was her problem.
Augustus was the perfect Pureblood heir; a respected Unspeakable; handsome, charming and powerful. And he never got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, unlike Algie.
Most importantly, the mark on his left arm meant that, when the Dark Lord rose to power, he would rise too. Yes, Augustus Rookwood was untouchable.
Rodolphus Lestrange, whiskey. WC 150
Rodolphus faced off against Rabastan, both of them grinning, bruised and bleeding.
The Duelling Club had been closed down after Bellatrix nearly severed Longbottom’s right arm, and the Slytherin team were desperate to let off some steam.
So the Lestranges had invented Stun Boxing; duelling, but with Stunners only. There was one round, and it lasted until someone was knocked unconscious.
They’d been going for fifteen minutes now, and the common room was packed with spectators. To his left, Bellatrix sat swigging Firewhiskey like a Knockturn Alley barmaid, lounging in her wingback like a Pureblood princess.
Rabastan yelped and she smiled, a drop of Firewhisky trickling over her lip and catching the firelight. Rodolphus would never forget the look on her face as she sliced Longbottom’s shoulder open; he’d never wanted to kiss her so badly.
She’d promised to share the bottle with the winner.
It would not be Rabastan.
Corban Yaxley, curse. WC 150
Corban enjoyed blasting the filthy werewolf aside; it was a shame Greyback merely crashed into the balustrade and not over it. He suspected the beast would be put down swiftly once the Dark Lord was victorious.
Everything was getting out of hand. The whining Malfoy boy didn’t have the courage to complete his mission, Greyback would start ripping out throats soon, and the unstable Carrow twins were a liability as ever.
But then Snape arrived. Corban vaguely remembered bullying him at school, because he was such an easy target. Scrawny, poor and half-blood; above all else, unlikeable.
Not anymore. Well, he was still unlikeable, but cemented in the Dark Lord’s favour; impressively fast and merciless with a wand. Corban wasn’t stupid enough to try his chances now.
He cast the curse that Draco couldn’t, and Dumbledore fell. No, Corban wouldn’t go against Snape unless he was absolutely sure of victory.
Evan Rosier, fire. WC 150
“Selene- go to Narcissa’s! Aurors are coming!”
Evan bundled his half-asleep, half-dressed, still-drunk sister towards the fireplace and shouted the destination. Their cousin was less judgemental than their mother, and the front door was about to be broken in.
Selene was a hopeless hedonist; she didn’t belong in a spellfight. Evan didn’t care about the man and woman still asleep in her bed.
He kissed the top of her dishevelled head, threw her into the fireplace and Bombarded it as soon as she’d disappeared.
Evan wasn’t a Seer, but he had a feeling this fight would be his last. He’d taken too many pieces off Moody for the DMLE to treat him gently. Besides, he had no intention of being taken alive; he preferred a fast death to the slow rotting of his looks, body and mind in Azkaban.
Evan Icarus Rosier was going out in a blaze of glory.
Rabastan Lestrange, betrayal. WC 150
“I’ve never trusted you!” Rabastan snarled, twisting aside as Lucius’ curse sailed past his ear.
“The Dark Lord is gone,” he drawled- always so fucking superior. “The Longbottoms knew nothing; that was painfully obvious several hours ago. Now they’re dribbling fluids from every orifice, Aurors will be here any moment, and I will not be dragged down with you!”
They exchanged curses, deflecting them into the walls with explosions of plaster.
“You’ve never had enough conviction,” Rabastan said. “There are more important things than saving your own skin!”
“I’ve done more than enough,” Lucius panted, dodging a Sectumsempra. “I disabled the alarms at the Ministry as I was there, in the expectation that you’d see sense and flee!”
Then the Obliviate hit Rabastan, and everything went dark. When he came to in a Ministry interrogation room, Veritaserum trickling down his throat, he spoke the truth. Lucius had never been there.
Nott Sr, midnight, stars, plush toy. WC 148
Theodore walked his son around the roof garden when he couldn’t sleep, even on a winter midnight. It was cold under the stars, but Little Theodore and his knitted dragon teddy were wrapped in a charmed blanket.
“Mama’s up there, dancing on the moon,” his son decided, his voice piping sweetly into the silence. “Wearing a dress made of stars and clouds.”
He waved at the glowing moon, and Theodore Sr felt his eyes well up. His heart performed the usual twist. Mariella...
“That’s right,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “She’s dancing with the bear and the lion and the dragon.”
“While the harp plays!” little Theodore added gleefully, pointing at the Lyra constellation.
Theodore Sr ruffled his son’s hair. The Dark Lord was gone, and he wasn’t coming back; the mark on his arm faded like an old burn. He could raise his son in peace.