"Well, Hogwarts Is A Game Of Survival, Each Day Is Just A Shot In The Dark." Morcant Rolled His Eyes,

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

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.

5x13

Odin had a great time at playing catch with the baby dragons and the baby thestral today. Morcant couldn't help but feel like a proud dad watching his antisocial son making friends, except his son had the spirit of an eighty year-old grumpy grandfather.

"They are cute, but I guess it's an acquired taste." Morcant's laugh was soft, silence settling in for a few moments. He liked Narcissa, her steadiness somehow made him few at peace. It was like someone created a bubble in space-continuum where his duties and worries disappeared. "He had a great time today, work has been demanding. There's a lot of unstable magical energy these days, he's talented at keeping my aura balanced, but it takes a lot out of him. I'm glad he had fun today. The dragons are fantastic, though. Congratulations."

open !  where : thestral night flight .

narcissa had been waiting by the side of the line with the thestrals that were grazing in the grass, she smiled down at the little babies grabbing the treats that she seemed to always carry on hand for the baby dragons. grabbing them out of their pocket they reached a hand out for the baby thestral to take thumb rubbing it's forehead. "honestly, they're very cute creatures." she says looking up, "if you can't see them there's a baby right here." she didn't know if she actually wanted to go on the ride, but this was a far enough place away from her mother and father who were undoubtedly searching for her.

who: morcant and bryrony @bryonyparkinsons where: conservatory, nott manor

"You know my mother loves you, right? Lady Astrid Nott definitely would be here, if she could." Morcant commented to his friend, after both of them settled in the comfortable french Bergère chairs. Between them, a matching table completed the set, with a porcelain tea set and little appetizers. "Things could be better, I guess. Father is being stubborn and choleric, but that's not news to anyone that knows him. Yes, I'm still unmarried, as I'm constantly reminded." He snorted, in a rare showcase of ungentlemanly, and sipped his steaming cup of tea. "How about you?"

“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?

WHO: morcant nott & bryony and valerian parkinson @bryonyparkinsons @xsecretkeepers WHERE: st. mungo's hospital, blishwick wing WHEN: new wing at st. mungo's

Obviously, Morcant couldn't avoid Bryony and Valerian for too long. It was rather silly of him to do so, of course, but he would take all the time he could from telling them he was now engaged. It's not as if they would particularly mind, after all, they were married to each other. It was more of the "Morcant Nott being a selfish bastard" gag roll. Nobody could fault him for saying he was charitable, being a Nott was a warning sign as good as any. ━ Hello, Lord and Lady Parkinson. It's a pleasure to see you today. I'm afraid you just missed my fiancée, Winnifred Yaxley, but I'm sure we'll have time to socialize later. We'll send the invitations for the engagement party later this week. ━ Morcant smiled pleasantly, cutting straight to the chase. He couldn't stand sitting on this for a single more minute.

         “  you look just like your mother.  ”                                                                          i guess i do carry her tenderness well         “  you both have the same eyes.  ”                                                                          because we are both exhausted         “  and the hands.  ”                                                                          we share the same wilting fingers         “ but that rage.           your mother doesn’t wear that rage.  ”                                                                          you’re right.                                                                          this rage is the one thing                                                                          i get from my father.

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.