resignation to the end (always the end) [regulus black] 

gyzym:

The first time Sirius shows his magic, he is five and Regulus is four. Orion’s hand goes up, up, a warning shot and a last call, vicious is as vicious does; they are in the parlor, a broken vase on the floor between them, until they are not. Sirius’ bedroom unfolds in front of them in slow, soothing waves, and Regulus will learn much later that it is nothing like Apparation. The door locks by itself, and Sirius’ smile is—naturally—blinding. 

Their parents will tell the story for years, the moment that shoved the display from him forgotten for company; “Isn’t it impressive,” they will say, “Isn’t it amazing, isn’t our Sirius the best wizard of his age?” They will tell the story until Sirius’s name is excised from their mouths and their tapestries, until they have stripped him off but failed to wash him clean, and Regulus will never argue. 

The first time Regulus shows his magic, he is four and Sirius is five. No one ever wonders what they could have been together, which is just as well. Regulus wonders enough for everyone. 

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melonylotseven:

The thing—the thing is, Peter is a rat among beasts. Wormtail cannot stand tall next to a stag, dog and wolf, because a rat is a rat, and Peter sometimes finds himself bitter.

Bitterness is a powerful pollutant. It creeps up on you, and sticks its claws into the soul. It seeps through the skin, swirls in the brain, and you can never quite shake it off.

The things about rats is that in the end, they consume everything. Even stags. Even dogs. Even wolves.

first war dreamcast: thomas turgoose as peter pettigrew

melonylotseven:

Nobody fucks with the Lestrange brothers. Loud, brash and violent, their barks match their bite.

They serve as Voldemort’s personal attack dogs, and they are willing to use whatever force necessary to remove all opposition.

first war dreamcast: tahar rahim and ben youcef as rodolphus and rabastan lestrange

“Magic. Is. Intent,” Tom says into the silence. “It is the most important lesson you will ever learn, and the one no one particularly wishes to teach you, so I will say it again: magic is intent. Your wand is an amplifier, a conductor, if you will; spells are merely focal points, a way to direct your power. The Founders raised this school from the ground with their bare hands, built it full of tricks because they, themselves, were inclined towards trickery. To cast Imperius, you must want to control your target. To cast Avada Kedavra, you must desire nothing more than the death of another living soul. Those who named them Unforgivables meant, I would guess, unfathomable, but were too proud to say it aloud.” 

“And this, students, is why we discuss the Cruciatus last. The Cruciatus curse is a torture curse; you must not only want to cause pain, but to cause unendurable pain, to cast it with any effect. There are those who have suffered under that curse whose minds never recover, because the agony they experienced left them too shredded to go on. There are those who have suffered under that curse whose bodies have chosen to die, rather than suffer it further. There is no such thing as Dark magic, only Dark souls, and the Cruciatus is simply human hate with a name attached for ease. If you are going to draw a line of demarkation between the forgivable and the unforgivable, you do not draw it at Imperius, and you do not draw it at Avada Kedavra. You draw it at torture, at pain for pain’s sake, at the physical manifestation of those parts of you that must remain in check. You draw it at Cruciatus, children, every single time.” 

living on land mines

charlotte-charles:

REMUS LUPIN      ★      the marauders promo posters

#do you ever cry because of how much you want something

a preview of the next installment of “living on wildfires”: 

gyzym:

“Once,” says Professor Tom Riddle, “this class was called Defense Against The Dark Arts. Can anyone tell me why?” 

A hand raises towards the back of the classroom; Riddle turns, and sighs. It’s the Pettigrew boy, who is—based on Tom’s initial impression of him—going to be a discredit to Slytherin House. Minerva insists that it is unseemly for him to pick favorites (and unfavorites) the way he does, that it is the duty of a professor and a Head of House to view all students equally. Tom allows that she is quite correct in principle, and bites his tongue against pointing out that she, too, goes against it in practice, if not so noticeably as he does. In any case, it’s hardly fair of her to judge him—it’s not as though she has Godric Gryffindor’s blood working under her skin. An embarrassment to Slytherin means something rather different, to Tom. 

“Yes, Mr. Pettigrew?” he says, his driest, deadliest drawl, and gets a little bit of pleasure at the way he can feel the boy’s palms start to sweat. 

Minerva says the purpose of teaching is passing on an education. Tom thinks the purpose of teaching is drumming as much stupidity out of humanity as possible and then hoping for the best, but it’s not the sort of thing he’d say out loud. 

“It was called Defense Against the Dark Arts because it taught you to defend yourself against the Dark Arts, sir!” Ah, a literalist. How refreshingly predictable. 

“Two points to Slytherin for being able to follow a basic logical construct,” Tom says, “and two points from for calling me sir. In this classroom, you may feel free to address me as Professor, as Mr. Riddle, as God,” (the standard laugh here, a few mooning sighs from the more advanced of the girls and at least one of the boys, it gets easier every year) “but I do not answer to sir. Authority is what got us into this mess, after all, and I daresay it won’t get us out again—and by this mess, students, I am referring to the war currently raging across the Wizarding world. Don’t look so shocked, Pettigrew—you either, Rookwood, get your jaw up off the floor. Learn something from your Gryffindor classmates, and expect nothing but honesty from me. Now! Who can tell me why this class is simply called Defense?” 

A boy in the back of the room raises his hand. He has shaggy dark hair and the look of someone who’d rather be anywhere else; a Black, then. Has to be. Tom raises an eyebrow and nods at him, watches as the three around him—a redheaded girl, a boy with round glasses, and the one whose very walk screams werewolf—settle back to watch. 

“It’s not just the Dark Arts we have to worry about, Professor,” says Sirius Black, and Tom Riddle quirks a smile, says, “Five points.” 

Friendship dies and true love lies,
Night will fall and the dark will rise,
When a good man goes to war.

apriki:

Some souls are darker than others.

Something is coming. In the chambers of the Ministry and the secret rooms of the wizarding world there are whispers of a man - a man who is not a man at all. A man who would be king….

The pureblooded families of England keep to themselves. Wealthy and intrinsic, they marry within their own small circles and rarely admit outsiders - though it has become more and more common to cast off family members who assosciate with those deemed unworthy. Tradition, purity and family obligation has long been the creed of this small world - a world that extends even as far as Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Three sisters are born into the Black family, one of England’s oldest - and purest. Firstborn Bellatrix, headstrong Andromeda, and their younger sister Narcissa return home from school to their mother, Druella, and the prospect of the parties and cotillions that make up the pureblood season.

Bellatrix, just graduated, is feverish for news of the enigmatic figure called only the “Dark Lord” - the summer marks the last she will have to spend in the trappings of childhood, and it soon becomes clear that she is unable to hide the cruelty and power she possesses from those closest to her. 

Feeling more alienated from her home each passing day, Andromeda suffers under the pressure of her mother’s insistence of an arranged marriage to a schoolmate she loathes. The only one of her family to maintain contact with her estranged cousin Sirius, Andromeda seeks escape from the pureblood circle with him in the Muggle world, and is surprised to meet a familiar face along the way.

Narcissa, alone of the three sisters, has been waiting for this summer for years: it is finally her year to be presented to society, and she will let nothing ruin it - especially her sisters. She volunteers the manor for an end of summer ball and finds herself engaged in a battle with both the house and her parents in an attempt to make it presentable. And it is soon clear that she is not the only one unprepared to face the many secrets and lies that live within the House of Black.

The three sisters navigate the wizarding world as they were raised to; with the full knowledge that they are the highest of the high. Their lives at once begin to unravel and draw closer to one another as the cloud of war begins to descend over their world. This is not where the battles are fought, but rather where the seeds of their making are grown - and willing or not, the sisters Black are caught in the center of it.