decrepit solitude twists and bends the very cogs of time, skewed perception slowly altering to reflect a more maddened state. days of glory, of burdened purpose call to the woman in her renegade ‘splendour’, and though she would willingly pick up wand again to constrain against those of unrighteous birth, the necessity of survival overwhelms all. their kind are a suppressed serpent, a poisonous adder laying in wait to strike and lay claim with poisonous venom once more. internal fanatacism works to detrimental effect, however, leaving grisly haunts within mind, simple shell of former high society manners echoing in what once was.
diagon alley, at times, provides scant relief to warped tension within alecto. archaic shop fronts and blissful proximity to knockturn reminds the woman of youth, wherein terrorist tendencies served to facilitate the dawning of a new era. and now, though the layout remained unchanged, certain political freedoms and the presence— nay, mandatory inclusion of all blood-stati served to boil the very blood of degeneration incarnate. she’d laugh in curdled tones, and indeed, does so to see the invasion of filth into formerly sacred territory. one such accreditation to the failing purity of wizarding strain crosses path, and it is with all the desperation of a madwoman that alecto calls forward.
” your mumsy. little andromeda black or tonks or whatever awful surname she’s prancing about with these days. — she doing well? ” a curve of lips, and the witch saunters forward, disdainfully eying a crop of unnaturally hued hair. a scoff, and fingers itch to scalp the filth of her failed genetics. it’d certainly make a colorful addition to her collection of hunted items, after all. however, the witch deigns only to move even closer, verdant gaze casting over the other female; space is given, though in truth, not much. ” and your mudblood papa. is he well too? — always forget his name, see, but then his lot isn’t very high on priority of people to remember. i’ll figure it out, when i see his name carved on a headstone or whatever, hrm? ”
The swish of her robes upon the pavement sends a thrum of pleasure through her chest as she makes her way past colourful shopfronts and squawking patrons. Diagon Alley has always been one of her favourite places, ever since she was small. She can remember dragging her father along behind her to gaze longingly at the newest racingbrooms in the windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies, and pleading with her mother to let her buy an owl three years before she left for Hogwarts. But now she has much more serious duties to attend to. Duties befitting an A U R O R.
Not that she’s an Auror. Not yet, anyway. She’s in the first year of her training, under the tutelage of Mad-Eye Moody, the best there is. She’s fiercely proud of that, of the fact that he’s taken her under his wing, that he's finally given her something to do. So she practically s k i p s across the cobbled stones to the Apothecary to pick up potion supplies. It’s not much, but proving she is able to do this small task means that, soon perhaps, she’ll be granted even larger ones. Anything to break up the hours of study and tests and practice and then more study. Hardly her cup of tea. But, all the same, to be an Auror is her greatest ambition. For now. And who knows? Perhaps it will remain her greatest ambition for the rest of her life. The thought of her future and her life years from now causes her to halt momentarily, in awe at the concept that her life will stretch on for years and years and she has no concept of what it will look like. Shrugging, she continues unfazed. She’s never claimed to be any good at Divination ; better to focus on the here and now. And here and now she has to go purchase two jars of newt eyes and a box of dried beetles.
She’s hardly expecting to be caught up in conversation when a voice rings out through the din, pulling her up a stone’s throw of her destination. Whipping around to find the source, she eyes an older woman, trying to place the vaguely familiar face. The name Carrow jumps to the forefront of her mind ; she’s unsure where it came from, but it sounds right, so she’ll accept that for now. The woman obviously has some sort of knowledge of her parents, although her words and tone hardly suggest to Tonks that their relationship is friendly, in any sense of the word. Crossing her arms, she glares at the woman, a deep scowl left on her face from the obvious t h r e a t to her father. Oh, so this one’s a P U R I S T , is she? One more thing that isn’t Nymphadora Tonks’ cup of tea.
❝ You watch your mouth! Don’t call my father a m u d b l o o d. Who're you supposed to be, anyway? Am I supposed to recognize you? ❞
Her hair’s turned a vibrant scarlet. She’s never been too even-tempered.
