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three_broomsticks2017-01-21 11:19 pm
madam_rosmerta) wrote in three_broomsticks2017-01-21 11:19 pm
Entry tags:
Wizarding AU
 HARRY POTTER AU MEME You're a wizard! Or perhaps you're a magical creature or a ghost. More importantly, where do your loyalties lie? Are you the Dark Lord or one of the Death Eaters? Perhaps you teach at Hogwarts or work at the ministry. Are you a member of the Order of Phoenix? Are you a student in Hogwarts? In which house did the Sorting Hat place you? Leave a comment with your character's name and canon and your preferences in the title line. Then put down a few ideas about your character in your top level. Both AU characters and canon characters are welcome. List of prompts: (Choose from these or make up your own.) 1. HOGWARTS Are you a teacher or a student? Which house are you in? What subjects do you teach? Next week might be the most important quidditch match of the year and you're the team captain! Maybe you're the potions professor and someone just blew up their cauldron. 2. AURORS Are you a trainee? The head Auror who has been dueling with dark wizards all your adult life? A dark wizard? Catch you if we can! Or maybe you're an auror breaking curses in a Death Eater safehouse. 3. DIAGON ALLEY A bustling locale filled to the brim with wizarding shops and taverns. Are you a business owner? Perhaps you're a wand maker or a student buying your books for the next year in Hogwarts. Maybe you just want to get a shot of firewhiskey in the Three Broomsticks. 4. MINISTRY OF MAGIC Do you work here? You could be in the Department of Mysteries, handling a new case about vanishing cabinets. Or maybe you work in the misuse of muggle artifacts office, dispelling singing teacups or flying cars. Is it a busy day, a slow week, or just another day in the office? Maybe you're one of the gossips who just heard of the newest bit of juicy gossip. 5. THE OLDEST AND PUREST BLOOD Were you born to a pureblood family? Perhaps you're an heir of great, questionable fortune. Maybe you'd like nothing to do with your family who supports the Dark Lord. What if you fell in love with someone your family doesn't approve of? Or maybe both of your parents are muggle born and this is still all new to you. 6. FLYING There are great many ways to fly: broomsticks, hippogriffs, dragons. Take your pick and soar through the skies! 7. DUELING/SPELL CASTING What's the fun in being a wizard if you can't cast spells? Are you good at something specific? Do you use silent spells a lot? Perhaps you're the best dueler with a wand that's been seen for ages. Or maybe you're just starting out, and a spell just backfired in your face. 8. ST. MUNGO'S HOSPITAL FOR MAGICAL MALADIES AND INJURIES Did your spell go haywire? Did you stick a satsuma up your nostril? It happens. Happily there's a hospital for your needs. Or maybe you work there, healing all those poor and silly wizards who turn up in desperate need of your care. 9. AZKABAN A fortress island in the middle of the Northern sea, full of the most dangerous dark wizards. Are you a resident, or visiting? Watch out for those dementors! 10. POTIONS You brewed the best pick-me-up potion but something went wrong? Maybe you ended up purple in the face. Or you gave a love potion to the wrong person. Maybe you mixed your hangover potion with magical viagra? It happens. But now you have to deal with it. 11. MAGICAL CREATURES Do you work with dragons? Perhaps you have some giant blood in you. Or maybe you were bit by a werewolf and your first full moon is nearing. Maybe you found an injured unicorn. Or your house has become infested with boggarts. 12. WILD CARD Come up your own scenario. |
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Shut up.
[ --sounds a lot more like a snarky fuck off. Any record-player John produces is getting thrown right out the window, experimental noise records and all, with the DADA professor shortly following.
Damian may be half his size, but he could do it. But for now, he jams his eyes closed, determined to ignore Constantine's ribbing. Finding focus is easy, that's never been difficult for him, but achieving peace, true emotional equilibrium, is a different beast he has yet to tame.
Too many ways he is pulled, too many conflicting demands: the illegitimate blood son, competing for approval, even as his father rejects everything his mother's family stands for; his mother's insistence that he is an al Ghul before all things, even as the more Damian sees of his Dark heritage, the more he recoils.
Still, he can manage this much, getting back to that calm, composed place he'd had before he'd ever stepped foot in Constantine's office. ]
I'm always ready. Come on.
[ He will summon this Patronus if it's the last thing he does, and it will be magnificent. ]
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The floor is yours, then, o my dear apprentice. Assuming you remember how to start meditation?
[ He's going to keep up this act until the boy gets the idea to shut his mouth and eyes and actually start focusing. Which may mean they'll be here a while. ]
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-Tt-!
[ One last, spiteful click of his tongue in return -- a curse without words -- before he lapses into sullen silence, settling into stillness and staunchly ignoring the noise.
The minutes tick by, but he doesn't fidget, doesn't squint his eye open like some of John's more unruly students would. And, slowly, the tight set to his shoulders drops, breathing deep and even. Even the furrow of his brow, a permanent fixture, smooths out; looking more his age, for once. ]
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He is silent and exacting as he prepares, drawing a circle on the ground in chalk, dressing it with candles and dead, shrivelled plants, pricking his palm with a pocket knife and letting it drip into the centre to bind it all together.
No going back now.
He thinks for a moment about whether the prisons will notice one of their guards missing, about the Ministry inquiry that will be launched, about all the bureaucrats who will come to breathe down Dumbledore's neck. He thinks about it and grins, knowing it's worth it a thousand times over.
Maybe Damian hears the whispering in the midst of his zen. Maybe he reacts. Maybe he'll just crinkle his nose in annoyance at his teacher and keep meditating. Even in hushed tones, John's lazy Northern lilt vanishes inside the primordial incantation coming from his mouth: ]
T́o͠i͏r̡̀ i͜bh̸ dh̕҉om̀h̴a̸̕n ̨͠à̧t̕h̴̶͠a͞ i̢̛͡ŕ҉ ҉͜b̷̛às̷͟
t͡͡h͢a̶m͟í ̶͟d̶o͜͞͝l͟a̴͠͝ ̷̨d̀͝h̕͝à͠n͏́am̛͏h̡͝ ̛b̵̡o͟c̨̕ḩ ̧d̢ŕ͠o҉͝ ̢͏g̸͟ha͡inn̵e҉҉ą͏ ̡҉b̨͘͠e̸͟͡ą͜t̢̢h̷̛ą̛͠
unali ͝k̡u u ͠ola
no subject
He's tempted to squint an eye open, to glare the man's way, but instead scrunches them more tightly closed, lip curling, nose crinkling.
Calm. Collection. Focus. Patience. He grits his teeth.
Patience... A sharp breath, through his nose.
Patience...
Patience snaps. Without opening his eyes, he snarls: ]
Constantine, knock it off, you ass--
[ Thirty points from Hufflepuff for swearing at a faculty member. Worth it. ]
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John isn't sure exactly when the creature appears. The energy in the room keeps darkening and the sense of dread and death that usually lingers in the back of his mind take the steering wheel. Panic alarms go off in his frontal lobe, the sensations of fight or flight replaced with a third, overriding order to freeze.
By the time John opens his eyes at the conclusion of the spell, it's already in the room.
The ragged black cloth floats like the tendrils of an ancient predator from the ocean, the sound of freezing air rattling through a dry ribcage threatens to ensnare John. He ignores the sensation that's something like an icicle puncturing his heart, bleeding him out and filling him back up again with pitch black nothingness. He keeps his head up, staring back at the abyss in physical form before him.
What makes this a tricky summon is that the thing cannot leave the circle, so long as John maintains it with focus. However, the effect of the Dementor's presence can extend to beyond the circle, and John cannot maintain the spell if he passes out.
But still he speaks calmly and gently, almost casually to Damian. Some of his persona drops out of his voice, replaced with the out-of-character and softer John that he reserves for frightened children and the damned few innocent souls he's ever met. Now, he is instructing himself as much as he is the boy. ]
Think of something good, lad. A memory, a wish, whatever works. But it has to be something that can't be touched, or tarnished by even the worst stuff in the world. Say the words when, and only when you have it. Then open your eyes.
[ In the meantime John will just try to contain the monster. A battle of wills with death incarnate. Just another goddamn Tuesday for Constantine, really. ]
saw this comin a mile away
[ The rebuke dies in his throat, extinguished, like a flame snuffed out with a quick pinch. Trailing after is a thin noise: not a whine or a whimper, but a hiccuped gasp of shock, the puff of his breath freezing in the air before him. Despair sweeps over him, creeping inch by inch and sinking through his skin to his bones, his marrow, deeper, until it's clenching with icy fingers at his very soul.
Nothing, in this moment, could convince him to open his eyes; not at the monster that's somehow here and mere feet away. Damn Constantine.
It isn't the thought of his parents he reaches for. What few happy memories with his parents have already been tarnished, no matter how much he convinces himself otherwise. His mind lunges, instead, to last winter. To fireplace at his grandfather's estate, tucked away in a room no one visited. To a desperate fire-call home, in the middle of the night. It was futile, he knew no one would be awake to hear, except--
"Nightmares, kiddo?"
Even when pride wouldn't allow Damian to confess what he'd witnessed that night, couldn't even bring himself to beg to be taken away, it helped the horrors fade. The fire's warmth, Grayson's chattering voice, gave him some childish sense of protection; a reassurance that, on the first day of spring, he would be back in his father's house. Safe.
Wand clutched in a death grip, he grits, pushing his voice out in a fierce mumble through fear and chattering teeth: ]
Expe-pecto, expecto pa-patronum, expecto patronum--
[ Puffs and sparks of silver lightning, one after the other, mounting in strength and substance. ]
Expecto patronum!
[ His snarl cracks on the last word, warmth washing up against his face. Except when he dares to squint an eye open, there's no large, grand creature stampeding down the enemy, but an absurdly small bird in layers of silver flitting around the Dementor, cheerful song haranguing the thing.
A... robin? ]
no subject
Then another.
John, somewhat selfishly, relishes in the wash of relief through his heart as the child and his bird take on the the Dementor, lessening the pressure on him to keep it contained. He'll add his own spell in a moment, once he's sure Damian's got it, that it's not a fluke.
Then he breathes in, welcoming the cold. The chill of the air sharpens his focus and electrifies his thoughts.
"John, you're a right bastard" a friendly voice teases in his memories. He says it over a pint at the pub, from beyond a haze of smoke in one of their flats, from behind the steering wheel of his cab.
He's joined by a chorus of a few more voices repeating the sentiment: his niece, another muggleborn Slytherin, in her fifth year. The Big Green fella on days they could get on. A certain American mage who had a cute way of saying things backwards.
Even Damian's own father voices in his mind, just so John can prove fuck you, I can do this.
When John says 'expecto patronum' it's almost incidental, the energy and intent already boiling over in him so that the words themselves sprout as naturally as an apple.
And does a British bulldog emerge in silver light from his wand? How about a great lion? Maybe a noble steed like those whom drew his ancestors' chariots?
No, instead a rabbit springs forth, unremarkable in features save for some nicks in his ears. It wastes little time in joining it's kindred spirit, taking a bite out of its bony hand.
Really, the image of a robin and a rabbit facing down an unknowable scion of death is rather dole. John permits himself a chuckle, which should make their spells stronger, at least.
no subject
At his robin, the bird doing a quick circle around the boy's head; gifting him with a little more warmth, a little more strength.
At Constantine's rabbit, the creature just as thematically inappropriate -- John chuckles, and Damian's expression scrunches into critical disbelief. And, despite the chatter of his teeth, manages to spit out: ]
No one can know of this. You'll tell my Father it was a hypogriff, and I won't breathe a word of your bunny.
[ He is taking the secret of their adorable, tiny Patronuses to his grave. ]
Now keep holding it still, I want to punch it.
[ He's rolling his sleeve up a skinny arm to the elbow, the little terror. Time to make his mark. ]
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[ This is all bound to create some sort of very long, ugly Ministry hearing.
Which is precisely the thought John needs to strengthen the ward on the Dementor, grinning to himself. The circle in which its contained glows the red of a dying star. For measure, the silver rabbit in the air sinks it's teeth into the thing's arm, causing a displeased hiss to emit from it's mouth-hole. ]
Make it fast and don't aim for the face, bird-boy.
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[ Never let it be said that Damian doesn't make sure he gets what he feels is owed to him: namely, his father's attention in the interpersonal conflict against Talia.
Divorce is exploitable, and that's the only good thing about it. ]
No funny business with the blood, either. Grandfather will know.
[ Ra's always knows. He's tetchy over anyone messing with the al Ghul bloodline; there are curses upon curses layered on it.
He breathes in hard through his nose, mouth crooking to the side in determination as he compels his shaky legs to stomp their way closer to the thing, skirting around the edges of the circle to stand next to Constantine, look beneath the hood.
His fist clenches. The robin darts in. Both patronus and boy coordinate to deliver a resounding punch -- a first! -- to the thing, drawing a pissed off screech from it. The shock of contact alone steals his own breath away, has him reeling back to bump against John's legs, but his grin is toothy nevertheless, bristling with pride in victory. ]
Note that one for the history books, Constantine.
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[ In no mood to be outdone by a child of the Wayne estate, John gets a lick in as well, a minor pyrokinetic spell charged in his fist as he does so, his rabbit joining in for a headbutt for effect. The weakened Dementor hisses in complaint and sinks back through the circle as John closes it with what remains of the hot energy in his off-hand.
Then, drained, he slumps back against his desk, his tiny patronus wisping away. The boy didn't need to know that was, perhaps, the third time his teacher had brought it forth successfully. He leans his weight against the table, pawing around for his flask of firewhisky. The adrenaline is still running too raw to consider trifling details like how they could have both been made extremely dead, but he speaks through pants. ]
Right. I've one more lesson today, if yer' up for it. Do you know what an alibi is?