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Sweden vs Japan: Quidditch World Cup Final; Year 4 - Day 16 - QWC - Day 6 - 12pm
Topic Started: Feb 16 2015, 05:22:29 PM (2,472 Views)
Addie Lumineux
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And there was Poppy. At least something had worked out in their favour...

Of course, it was followed by a surge of Malfoys, which Addie didn't find particularly pleasant. She could have done without this family reunion. After all, all purebloods were related in some way or another.

"I don't suppose you have money riding on the game, do you Lucius?" Addie asked, raising an eyebrow at the equally calm man. At the very least it was nice to talk with someone else who was being somewhat level-headed.

"The game will be postponed, dealing with the mess that's happening right now is more important than Quidditch. Clearly this was more than just DeWitt and the girl in the stands, the office of Magical Law Enforcement will have a lot to look into. It's embarrassing that this was able to happen despite heightened security."

Addie returned her gaze to the pitch, looking thoughtful. She wanted to get out there and figure out exactly what was going on... yet, she was sure there were already aurors getting ready to interrogate DeWitt and Fitzroy. The best place for her was here, where she'd be able to help protect the people who mattered to her if anything more happened.
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Carmen Gray-Winters
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and I will take what is mine

The room seemed to drift away in slow motion, leaving only Carmen's shaky feet on the carpeted box floor. Her hand, once cemented to the small of Poppy's back, fell limply at her side. Her eyes seemed unable to look at anything but the floor, ghosts of an uncertain past whispering against the nape of her neck. The world around her shifted slightly, uncomfortably, inexplicably. She exhaled slowly, struggling to shake off the looming image of a face that she spent decades trying to forget. She remembered it all: the anxious sagging of shoulders, weighed down by sorrow, or the straightened spine of a boy with a warrior's gleam in his eyes, reflecting like light against shards of glass. She remembered the sandy hair that had fallen over a sun-kissed forehead, settled into the same face she saw deathly pale, glistening with sweat. Poppy had seen it. She had seen those lips, curved up in a silent smirk, self-righteous and as controlled as a storm. She had glimpsed at his hands, strong and worn with lines, shadows slipping between the gaps of his familiar fingers. Somewhere near Carmen, Theodore Wickham had met Poppy Gray-Winters.

And he hadn't once asked about her.

Why was the realization so nagging? She slowly floated back to reality, offering Victor a sympathetic glance. Her thoughts of Theodore obscured the realization that Vera was still an ominous absence among them. Vera's jade eyes, set like stones in a diamond face, were nothing but rotting flesh buried beneath piles of dirt. But now she had a doppelganger? That didn't sit well with Carmen; in fact, she felt dread in her stomach as she glanced among the group that had, somehow, found its way into this VIP box.

Carmen cleared her throat, finding her voice shaky. “All sorts of people look like Vera. It's not very difficult,” muttered Carmen. “I just...” What? She just what?

“Sorry, I'm distracted,” said Carmen distantly, and she walked away from Poppy, Victor, and the rest of those lunatics. She leaned her body as close to the outside as she could get. A gust of cool wind blew past her face. Static from microphones sizzled across the crowd. On the Quidditch Pitch, little dots were yelling at each other, dissecting rule books. Overhead, a camera had zoomed onto the crowd. A baby giggled freely in the lap of its mother, Swedish flag clutched into its waving, fat fist.

Its mother, arms wrapped tightly around her child, was weeping. The camera shook, then shifted positions.
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Auror | Training. Elementium.
Long is the way
And hard, that out of Hell

leads up to Light
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Booker DeWitt
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THE FALSE PROPHET

"I don't have time for this."

The DeWitt Lounge, likely the best protected and elaborate room inside of the stadium, was uncharacteristically empty and haunted by the chilling, rumbling voice of Booker DeWitt. Normally, there would have been a celebration for the final match. Drinks on the house, pretty women and swanky music. However, with the recent turn of events, it was difficult to mix business with pleasure. Shit kept happening.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

And Booker was beyond agitated with his lack of control. How did he expect to make an enormous profit when anarchists kept interrupting his games? Booker clenched his jaw. When things spiraled from his grasp, he had a tendency to behave in a reckless manner. A Minister for Magic that reacts impulsively is never a good leader for his country. So in those precious, waiting moments where Booker felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, who was he to his people?

To ensure his safety, a select trio of people were allowed inside of the suite with Minster DeWitt. Lucy DeWitt, Booker's loving wife and the sister of Precious Lestrange. Timothy DeWitt Sr., Booker's identical brother and second-in-command of the DeWitt Empire, and Max Rowle, a close friend and trusted advisory. As the Minister for Magic, Booker knew many, many people whom he could call upon for favors, but unfortunately, there were only three in which he trusted in.

"Something needs to be done Booker," said Timothy, shattering the opaque silence. He inhaled deeply, his hands deep in his pockets. "The Ministry has stopped the match. If it's postponed indefinitely, we'll lose."

"We won't just lose," Max interjected, throwing a warning glare at Timothy. "We'll lose everything. How you react in the next few seconds will determine our gain or our loss. Think smartly."
Posted ImageHouse DeWitt | "Ours is the fury." | Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.

Booker Jackson DeWitt. Swedish Minister of Magic. Unloyal husband to Lucy. Padre of Alexander and Sasha.
Son of Sicily. Don.


"There are no men like me. Only me."
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Lucy DeWitt
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I don't need a man to handle my shit.

"Booker."

Lucy's voice was calm, smoother than a storm, a lost lover calling for her love among the chaos. She stood behind the trio of men, her frail frame hunched as she wrung her hands nervously before her chest. Smoothly, she breathed, attempting to remain sane for herself and her husband.

Husband.

Marriage? Booker was not a doting husband to her, just as he was not a truthful and just leader of the Swedish Ministry. The sole reason why he kept her beside him was because she was the perfect trophy to parade around: She was of Russian royalty, her blood fine and proud. She was beautiful - or, he had made her believe she was once. She was a healer, good publicity, a caring woman who wanted to revolutionize wizarding medicine. And most importantly: She was loyal, and she stayed when he did not.

Lucy tensed, the hairs on her neck raised as she sensed a threatening glare from Booker. God, he was so tragic and miserable. He would have to kiss his knuckles before he kissed her with them. Why did she stay? It was too often that he woke up on mornings with a hangover and a raging desire to kill his wife. Was that all she would ever know? Tragedy and unhappiness?

When two people love each other and cannot make it work, that is the real tragedy.

Ignoring her brother-in-law, Lucy stepped forward. "Think about what you're going to do." She could hear the cogs in his brain, clink clink clink. What he was about to do was not going to be rational. Someone was going to have to clean up his mess, blood and sweat and all. "Please Booker," Lucy pleaded. "Our niece has died. Our son is out there - please think this through."

She could feel Max and Timothy's hateful stares at her. Woman, their forked tongues hissed. Traitor.

As the Minister for Magic's wife, she knew that Booker would be forced to take her influence into consideration.

Good. Lucy thought, laying a thoughtful hand on Booker's shoulder. Man of my life. Man of my dreams. I believe this man may kill me.

Posted ImageHouse DeWitt | "Ours is the fury." | Healer

"The Greeks had two meanings for the word 'Utopia'.
'Eu-topos', meaning 'the good place',
and 'ou-topos', meaning 'the place that cannot be'."

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Booker DeWitt
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THE FALSE PROPHET

The instant Lucy's flesh made contact with Booker's suit, he stepped away, almost as if her palm could burn a hole through his arm. Timothy and Max tensed at Booker's rapid movement; Lucy gasped softly and retracted her hand, regret flooding her veins and sinking her heart with an anchor of rejection. Booker stared coldly at his wife.

Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that brilliant mind of hers. I wouldn't mind cracking it open for a peek. Would it be worth it?

Booker's jaw clenched, his spine stiff as he turned to face the pitch again. The navel of the stadium was littered with frustrated quidditch players and smug aurors. Booker could feel the control slip from his hands like a leash escaping his grasp. Gone before he knew it. The thought infuriated him; he thought he would have an aneurysm on the spot.

"Booker," Timothy said again, growing restless with each ticking moment. He began to tap his foot. DeWitts were never patient; they were granted their desires when the first thought occurred to them. "The fucking Malfoys are all over this. It's for the debt you never paid to them."

Bring us the girl, wipe away the debt.

Booker's veins sealed into ice, his heart shriveled and retracted into a gaping black hole. In moments like these, Lucy was truly terrified of her husband and his power. Who had made him this way? What would he do? Booker reached up and rubbed his chin, his mind working strategically on a solution to lift them from this rut they had found themselves in.

"Our son, Booker --"

"Our son, Lucy?!" Booker whirled around, and the strength of his raised voice echoed off of the walls. Max and Timothy stepped aside, sensing an angry domestic argument. "Kid's made it this far! He'll be fine. Meanwhile, I've got my credibility on the fucking line! Do I lose millions or do I lose the faith of my people?"

Lucy remained strong, her spine rigid as she attempted to remain calm for the sake of Booker's sanity. She used the next few seconds to breathe calmly and reminded herself to be rational. "Alexander is part of that anarchist group --"

"Then he's part of the fucking problem!" Booker exploded, throwing his tumbler onto the ground. It exploded into a thousand, glittering pieces, sparkling and broken, a visual representation of the DeWitt union. Lucy jumped, sensing a bigger storm on the horizon if she didn't manage to quell Booker in the next few minutes. "I trusted you to raise our kids, and now look at what you've done. This is your fault."

His words were razors piercing paper skin. She swallowed her guilt, her palms clammy and her throat dry. "He's a g-good kid," Lucy began, but she could not find the strength to finish her sentence. She was losing when she had set out to win. Helplessly, she glanced at Timothy, her blue eyes wide and pleading. Timothy only stared at the ground and dreamed of himself somewhere else.

"Not good enough, Luce! Not good enough. Because now he's stopped my game. Do you hear me? Look at me." Booker was breathing raggedly now, as if he had sprinted across the quidditch pitch. He stared at his wife, his temples throbbing with rage as he struggled to remain together. Lucy continued to stare at her hands. Booker felt a red, hot, blinding anger sweep over him.

In two short strides, he crossed the empty space between them and snapped his fingers. "Look at me. I said, look at me." Then, trusting himself in his haze of lunacy, he grabbed her arm. This drew her gaze upward, her eyes blue pools of hatred and disgust.

Timothy stepped forward, his hand raised cautiously. "Booker," he warned, "the match."

Suddenly regaining her composure, Lucy jerked her arm from Booker's grip, her lips trembling as she struggled to voice her repulsion. "When this is all over," she said, her glare never leaving Booker, "when all of this is over, when you're poorer than dirt and your power is gone, remember that I won't be here. No one loved you like I did. No one."

"Get out." He snapped. "Get out."

Timothy and Max watched hopelessly as Lucy DeWitt turned and made her stealthy exit from the suit. The men were afraid to speak now; would Booker lash at them too for voicing their concerns? Booker had too much power over people's fears. Someday, someone would finally find his weak spot.

"Attention ladies and gentlemen," Booker DeWitt's voice rang across the pitch. "This is your Swedish Minister for Magic speaking on behalf of the recent turn of events. Public safety has been a pressing concern as the matches draw closer to the final game, and the Ministries from each represented country in the tournament has done everything in their powers to keep matters under control.

"That is why I am here to announce with full confidence that the stunts these 'Vox Populi' have pulled will no longer be of distraction. The head of Swedish Magical Law Enforcement has informed me that the radical Daisy Fitzroy and her band of anarchists were captured by aurors. I can assure you that these children had no serious means of harming others and were simply attempting to stir a bit of hysteria in light of the final match.

"With that being said, the Quidditch Union has declared that Alexander DeWitt's careless actions did not violate any decree. Thus, it is my pleasure to announce that the game can continue, and it will without any further interruptions. However, remember that it is the citizen's duty to report any strange or suspicious behavior. Thank you for your time."


Everything is fine. Trust in your governments.

The Vox Populi flags vanished without a trace of evidence. Sweden and Japan's flags replaced their vacant spaces, and a collective sigh of relief was heard in the crowd.

"Booker," Timothy rose his eyebrows questioningly. "You just lied to a million people."
Posted ImageHouse DeWitt | "Ours is the fury." | Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.

Booker Jackson DeWitt. Swedish Minister of Magic. Unloyal husband to Lucy. Padre of Alexander and Sasha.
Son of Sicily. Don.


"There are no men like me. Only me."
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Theodore Wickham
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IMPERATOR

Theodore grunted, his palms flat on the bar top as he glanced disbelievingly at Alice Rowle. Some things were too good to be true, weren't they? "I'm not surprised." Theodore drawled slowly, battling the urge to shatter every glistening bottle poised on the glass displays. "DeWitt has everyone on his payroll. That's how he leads his country."

"He's your uncle," Alice marveled, her eyes glittering. She was surprised that she knew this information; a few minutes ago, she and Theodore were only introducing themselves. "My uncle - he works closely with DeWitt."

Teddy sighed, unsure of what his next chain of events should include. He glanced at Sally from the corner of his eye, her skin ashen and pale from fear. Thoughtfully, he reached over and snaked an arm around her trembling frame. "Hey Sal, there's nothing to worry about. Did you hear Uncle Booker? He's got 'em. Your dad's got 'em."

Hope flooded into Sally's eyes, and for once, it was a warm sight to see after being exposed to the cold for so long. Theodore glanced at Alice, and noted that she watched him with familiar jade eyes, so comfortable that he could make a home in them. Alice reminded Theodore of Vera so much that it physically pained him.
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T.J.W

there's something about you, it's hard to explain...
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Lucius Malfoy
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I have never renounced my old ways.

“I have enough money of my own to play with, thank you very much,” said Lucius, but he gifted Addie a faint smile. He watched quietly as Carmen stepped to the edge of the box. A gust of wind blew past her face, rustling her curls that had cascaded down, past her jutting shoulder blades. Lucius pursed his lips, and his cold, pale hand tightened around his cane. “And embarrassing it certainly is. Although I must admit, shoving the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement agency will prove to be less... difficult than I once thought.” The man smirked, fingers tapping against the silver serpent's head of his cane.

Lucius himself had no ambitions for the job; his potential would rest somewhere else. However, the ministry itself was a complicated web of regulations and responsibilities. Whoever was spearheading the little “Vox” issue had not only let down the Ministry, but the entire global community. Disappointment on a global scale? Lucius sighed.

Suddenly, the voice of Booker DeWitt flooded their box. Lucius' jaw tightened. His respect for the man dwindled into nonexistent territory.

“Do you believe him?” said Lucius monotonously. A vein throbbed in his temple. Down below, he imagined he could hear Aloisia shrieking. “Since when does Quidditch have a union, anyway?”
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All you have to do is give it to me. I can show you everything.
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Aloisia Malfoy
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everybody's got a little hole in the middle

Aloisia Malfoy was a woman crafted from marble. She stood, shivering with silent anger, but remained with her red lips pursed against the barrage of choice words she had for this entire event. She stepped forward, cold, gleaming eyes burning into the referee's face. She stepped even closer, the scent of her perfume wrapping around his neck like her long, platinum-strong fingers. Aloisia was so close she could see beads of sweat pooling at the top of the man's ginger hairline. “Zachary...”

Her voice was smooth, like honey whiskey. “I guess it doesn't count, does it? What I want to know is who are you working for?” Her fists clenched as her teeth began to grind against each other, angrily screeching in her head. She had many choice words, all of which were not becoming of a woman of her magnitude, all of which would simply lower her to Booker DeWitt's level.

If that was even possible at this rate.

“The game can not continue just because one prime minister thinks it's all hunky dory,” snapped Allie. “What of Japan? What of our people? Booker DeWitt isn't in Sweden anymore.”

Her words were fire and gasoline.
Posted ImageIf he wants a fight
Well, now he's got one
And he ain't seen me crazy yet
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Carmen Gray-Winters
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and I will take what is mine

Carmen would have recognized that voice anywhere, husky like summer steam rising after rain. She could vividly remember each handsome crease in Booker DeWitt's cold face – how it could light up when he willed it to, breathing life into his eyes, hard as marbles. It lit up around Carmen, showering her in the distinct, powerful glow of approval just before he turned away, and Carmen slipped into the realm of everyone else. Carmen was entranced by Booker DeWitt then. Now?

She winced, his words grating. She turned to face her mother, seeing a deadly calm fall upon her. Carmen called it “scary calm” – it was the silence that always preceded a heavy-handed slap or scream. Vines, delicately, were still winding up Emma's arms. At the bar, Titine and Orion stood, open-mouthed and confused. Lucius was smirking at Addie, who was strong and still, a statue groomed for this moment. Cersia and Alex were pouting, still silently fuming despite Booker's voice, amplified and crooning. Poppy was sighing nervously, twirling her braid with her fingers. Victor stood beside her, his face inscrutable.

Carmen caught Victor's eye and held his gaze for a moment, hoping to dive into his thoughts and unearth sense of this. There was nothing. Sighing, Carmen looked back out to the crowd. Something faint, hardly recognized in passing, now began burning brilliant in her memory. Her eyes narrowed.


REWARD:
ANY KNOWN WHEREABOUTS OF THE TERRORIST
DAISY FITZROY
AND/OR THE CAPTURE OF ANY INDIVIDUALS IDENTIFYING THEMSELVES AS "VOX POPULI"
WANTED FOR CONSPIRACY


“Alex should be wanted, in theory,” muttered Carmen, finding hate in her heart for someone that she loved. “But why is he not? Because his father? Why are we blowing this over?” Carmen's voice was tremulous, shaking like the chirp of a bird. “More importantly, why do they get that right? If Daisy's going down...”

Daisy. Foul-mouthed, chipped-nailpolish Daisy Fitzroy, who smelled like sweat and determination built into her spine. Daisy was taking the fall for the sins of everyone... again. She was their scapegoat while Alex was a proper hero, dashing with a hard jaw and... God, Carmen couldn't stand to see his face, smug in its tear-stained glory. But whose tears?

“The fact that no one else is pissed tells me that no one else is paying attention,” said Carmen finally, and she exhaled slowly, afraid for her mother.

Afraid for them all.
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Auror | Training. Elementium.
Long is the way
And hard, that out of Hell

leads up to Light
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Jesse Lee
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On a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man in a dusty black coat with a red right hand

The people surrounding Jesse broke out in a deafening cheer when it was ruled that Alex would be allowed to play. Quickly Jesse made his way out of the crowds, and took the stairs to the boxes of the rich and famous. A place in society that Jesse had never seen before.

He snuck up behind a young auror and quietly cast a stunning spell. The kid fell to the ground and Jesse took the auror patch off of the uniform. This was a far fetched plan, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Fake it until you make it. He ran into a man who asked for identification, and Jesse gave the rehearsed answer. He was an auror off to give a report to the minister over pressing foreign policy matters. The bodyguard let him in.

Nodding at other aurors Jesse made his way to the DeWitt box. He nodded at Lucy DeWitt as she made her way past him, after all he was just another auror here to give a report. Taking a deep breath he knocked on the door. Not waiting for an answer Jesse took a step into the box.

Closing the door behind him. Jesse faced Mr. DeWitt. This was not how he wanted to be introduced into the Wizarding world. Jesse had no power, nothing to use as leverage. He knew though, that he'd have to make it seem like he did. "Mr. DeWitt. I know every word you just said was a lie, a lie for the people, but also for yourself." A normal person would be worried about the Prime Minister killing them. If that was the case for Jesse he didn't show it. "The bets are for Sweden to throw the match. Guessing from the stunt your son displayed, you need another plan. And soon." Jesse tilted his head and fixed his stare at the two men that were with the Prime Minister.

"I can help you, Mr. DeWitt." Jesse hadn't even given up his name yet. He still had an Auror's badge and there was nothing worse then the fear that he would fail here.
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Isabella Nott
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sisters in blood

“I think that would be more suitable.” Isabella calmly spoke after the unusual announcement from Booker DeWitt. He held some power within his own country, but he was in Scotland now. The UK, not Sweden. His words couldn’t hold much value, or at least Isabella expected they would not. She could see Aloisia screaming on the pitch, if the crowds weren’t so rowdy they would probably be able to hear her as well. The corner of Isabella’s lip twitched upwards. “Boys, Imogen, let’s go.” Isabella said turning from the window and leading her family out of the booth with Camille at her side.

They walked in silence, entering the booth which was full of quiet chatter. Isabella walked back over to the window to get another look out at the pitch. Her eldest son closed the door and Ezra dashed to the window to stand by his mother.

“It must be really embarrassing to have a traitor son.” Ezra snickered. Isabella turned her head, observing those who were in the room. The men were hardly traitor material, her eldest son was the most likely to rebel against the family. But it seemed as though he was content with his own lifestyle, he wasn’t a man to go out and force change into the world.

“They always fall back in line eventually.” Isabella commented turning to Camille who was topping up her own wine.

“Or they meet their end.” Camille looked into her wine as she spoke, Isabella just simply nodded her head and turned back to the pitch.
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i guess you could say we divorced because of artistic differences
he saw himself as alive
and i saw him as dead

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Klara Enden-Bedeaux
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Klara said but a few words since she entered the Montague booth. She was staring pensively out at the pitch. The pregame show must have been extravagant, but Klara's mind was elsewhere. It was with Precious. Klara, who felt very maternal over her Sisters, was grieving. Somehow losing Vera was like losing Anya again.

Klara did not budge when the Vox Populi rallied. Neither did Max, who was draped lazily over one of the Montagues' box seats. It was his idea to come back for the final game. If it were up to Klara, she would have spent the rest of the summer mourning with her grandson at home.

"Max, I'm out of wine," Klara declared, holding up her empty glass.

"Pour it yourself," Max scoffed.

His grandmother shot him a stern look. "I like rosé," she said.
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Maxwell Scabior
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Max groaned and peeled himself from the window seat. Stubbornly, he moved to the back of the box where the Montagues had a wide selection of expensive-looking wine spread out on a table. He didn't know what rosé was, but he picked a boring purple wine to refill Klara's glass. While he was up and moving, he poured himself a glass of something that looked a lot like pisswater.

Gwen Montague was standing with her new Hufflepuff arm candy, and Max took the liberty of standing beside them. "Well, haven't I been rude?" he said insincerely. "I'm in your booth and I didn't even bother to say hello. Well, hello. Some match, huh? It's a clusterfuck out there. DeWitt's dad is going to disown him." Max took a sip of his pisswater and recoiled. He did not like wine.
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Gwen Montague
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Gwen had noticed Klara walk into the room just before the match had begun. She seemed to have spoken to Camille for a few moments before her gran ran off to invite the Nott family into the booth. Now they were full up with quiet chatter, Gwen had found herself looking at Klara as she sipped her wine. She had been mourning as Victor had been.

That was when Max burst over, a close friend of Victor’s who hadn’t been around recently. She wondered how much he actually knew in the grand scheme of things, and what he thought of Vera’s demise. “Have you seen the Malfoys down there?” Gwen commented shrugging her shoulders and then turning to look at Maxwell.

“They are not impressed. Although they do know more about Vera and all that. Victor’s reaction was enough to tell them something was wrong.” Gwen murmured the last line as she glanced to Anatoli and then back to Max.
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Full name: Gwendolyn Morgana Montague
Nickname(s): Gwen
Blood: Pureblood
Youngest of the Montague household

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we don’t fight fair

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Camille Montague
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they lose their minds for us

Camille took her seat one more, it was opposite Klara at the side of the room with the perfect view to the pitch. She picked up her white wine and took a sip. Isabella walked over to the women, her hands folded in front of her. The three of them sat in silence, their eyes focused on different parts of the room as the children and men chatted at the side of the room. Camille turned back to her fellow sisters.

“Such a tragedy.” Camille quietly said before she took another sip of her wine. “And what a disaster. They couldn’t control a piss up in a brewery.” Camille commented quickly as she turned to look back out to the pitch. Rule books were being glossed over, the referee was darting around like a headless chicken. It was less than amusing to watch, and Camille wasn’t sure where they could go from there. “It wouldn’t be a shock if the stadium burnt to the ground next.” Camille chuckled.
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Camille Montague
Pureblood
Head of the Montague Household

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Amaranthine Sisterhood
we don’t fight fair
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Maxwell Scabior
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"The Malfoys..." Max stepped closer to the window and peered down at the crowd. He hadn't seen any of them since Fitzroy interfered with the sound. Maybe the whole family was joining up to find her and rip her head off. If that was the case, Max thought his grandmother should be among them. She was torn up about Vera.

Max turned back and looked from Gwen to Anatoli. "What do you mean? What was Victor's reaction?" His grip on the wine glasses tightened. Where was Victor in this mess, and was he okay? Max didn't like to imagine him upset, but Gwen implied otherwise.
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Gwen Montague
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Gwen nodded her head as she looked back out to the pitch, Atticus Malfoy was stood with his arms folded as he nodded along with what another man was saying. Gwen glanced to her father who was sipping his own drink and chatting to her grandfather. Her granddad used to work within the ministry and part of her wondered why he stopped, although she assumed it was because he didn’t need to work anymore. She wondered whether he wished he was out there helping in some way, or discovering what was going on along with the rest of them.

It was in his eyes. Gwen turned back to Max who was asking about Victor, she raised an eyebrow. “He’s probably in the same state as your gran over there. He was pretty bad.” Gwen remembered seeing the anger coursing through his veins. “I’ve never seen him so… angry.” Gwen had concern within her voice, her fingers tapped along Anatoli’s hand.
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Full name: Gwendolyn Morgana Montague
Nickname(s): Gwen
Blood: Pureblood
Youngest of the Montague household

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we don’t fight fair

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Klara Enden-Bedeaux
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Klara smirked, but her frown snapped back fast. "That's the last thing we need now. More chaos," she sighed. "These kids... they've always got to prove something. They feed on glory. They're reckless that way."

The other Sisters were more like daughters to Klara, and around them she kept to herself. Camille was different. She was the only one Klara could be honest with. She was a true sister. A best friend. "And what are we supposed to do about it? Get rid of them?" Klara's voice was angry, but her eyes were desperate. "There is no place on Earth for Daisy Fitzroy after what she's done, but you and I both know this shit won't end when the Vox is gone. There will be another Vox. And another. We've seen this over and over, Camille. When McKelvey started his rebel group in Hogwarts twenty years ago. It's the same. Different, but the same."

"It always happens, and children always die. Our children. Their children. They're not even old enough to understand what they're dying for. They just die. How many more?" Klara wrung her hands. So it was true -- Klara was going soft.
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Maxwell Scabior
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Max took another drink from his glass -- no, he still didn't like wine.

"Where is he now?" Max inquired, realizing how uncharacteristically urgent he sounded. Gwen and Anatoli must have thought it odd how much Max was asking about Victor. Well, he was only curious. "I mean..." he looked to Anatoli. "I guess I just thought he would be here with you. Aren't you two best friends or something?"

Max pretended not to care too much by letting his eyes dart around the booth at the adults. His gaze landed back on Gwen. He waited for an answer.
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Camille Montague
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they lose their minds for us

Camille nodded her head. The chaos was exhausting, Camille looked back down to her glass of wine. One, two three, one, two three, drink. Camille sighed bringing the glass up to her lips and taking a sip. They spoke with such freedom, it was almost a shame that the two of them weren’t sat alone in a tent or at a manor. Around them their families buzzed, be it blood or through strong bonds.

“As many as they will take.” Camille set down her glass, her teeth gritted together as Isabella sat listening to the two women in silence. It could be considered a sign of respect, Camille appreciated it. She turned back to Klara, the woman had lost a daughter to this terrible war and another sister had lost a daughter during the aftermath. Who would be next? Camille glanced over to where Gwen and Max were standing, her fingers curled onto the arms of her chair. “They don’t know when to quit, fighting before they have even discovered their own opinions.” Maybe that was why Camille was thankful for the Sisterhood. They did not steal small children and recruit them, once they grew and became adults they would have that choice.

Camille may have bragged about her own granddaughter joining their ranks one day, but if she did not then none of her own would be in the ranks. It would be a disappointment, Camille could hardly shake the feeling. At least if they were within the Sisters ranks Camille could protect them as they grew. She shook her head. “War never changes.” Camille almost laughed at the old saying. It had aged.
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Camille Montague
Pureblood
Head of the Montague Household

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Amaranthine Sisterhood
we don’t fight fair
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