[attr="class","reasonwendy"]

[attr="class","reasonbgwendy"]

[attr="class","reasonbigwendy"]

called malice

[attr="class","reasonsmallwendy"]Struggle after struggle, year after year the atmosphere's a fine blend of ice, I'm almost stone cold dead

[attr="class","reasonbodwendy"]The Epidemic was spreading just as they had planned, Wendy knew. Art had been careful about what he’d done to start – spread it out so everyone could come into contact with it. But, now that the vast majority of the Wizarding World was without magic, Wendy knew there was still more work to be done.

If they were smart enough, they would eventually be able to crack the code of the virus. If they pulled in enough muggle science and reason, they would be able to cure it. That was the reason Wendy had been so insistent that she help. She was running was a series of experiments within the walls of St. Mungo’s, when in reality, all Wendy was doing was railroading their current research. Whenever someone would get close to figuring something out, their data would show a strange influx or their experiment would have failed. It was brilliant, really. No one suspected her, a Squib Virologist to be behind it. After all, she was trying to save them.

A part of Wendy wondered what it would be like if she was the one to “develop the cure.” Would they feel indebted to her? Raise her up in wizarding society as some sort of Paragon? If that was the case, Wendy wasn’t sure that she wanted it. After all, she had been so poorly treated in this world for all her life, how could she possibly want to be a part of it now?

In truth, that had been all she had wanted as a child. She wanted to be like them – to have magic and to be able to bend reality and the world to her will. Perhaps a part of her still wanted that, but she had long since buried the idea down below the surface. Because she could never be like them. The genetic makeup of her being wasn’t predisposition to magic. That was one thing she’d learned during her research. She could take away magic – block the receptors and inhibit them from accessing their powers – but she could never give it back to Squibs or even give it to muggles.

So, it was both a victory and a defeat for her, she thought as she picked up a menu and ran her finger down the list of possible meal options. The outside patio of Caffi Pysgod was warmly heated and a nice change of pace for Wendy. Though, she longed for company. Someone that would talk and fill the void. After all, things had become so lonely since she’d returned to the Wizarding World. She wasn't an award-winning scientist on this side of the fence. No, she was just a Squib woman trying to solve the great mystery of Epidemic X… or so they thought.

[attr="class","reasontagwendy"]@ OPEN | 461 | OUTFIT

[attr="class","credwendy"]MADE BY VEL OF WW + ADOX 2.0

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The ghost of a steam train, echoes down my track
It's at the moment bound for nowhere

    Sometimes, Antonin wanted to get away from the crowded streets of London, but that feeling meant more that he wanted to get away from everything in general. From whatever it was that was causing havoc in his mind this time, for there were many things that could do that. In the same way, he didn't want to be at home. At the castle. There were a lot of memories roaming those halls, portraits that definitely noticed when something was on his mind and demanded to be talked to. No, he would rather spend some time in a calm place, one which he didn't often frequent, so he could he find something to entertain him and get his mind off everything. Off of what? Well, Titus had lost his magic. His only son- Genie would be so disappointed in Antonin for failing to protect their son from such a tragedy. He was still Antonin's son, of course he was, but he had lost something that was so personal. Such an intrinsic part of him. His son, the Alchemy professor, could no longer practice his craft. He could no longer fight for himself, a boy that Antonin had raised to be a warrior. Not with magic, at least, though Titus had been taught to fence and throw knives and all those things that made a brawl enjoyable. No, but his son was now a squib- or not even that, really. A squib was... acceptable, to a certain extent. His family had never killed or mistreated them, even if they were of less value than any magical child. But no, Titus was not a squib because squibs were born without magic. What was the word for a wizard that was born with it and then lost it? 
    Florence had also lost her magic and with it, her career. Antonin had heard that St. Mungo's was trying to incorporate muggle techniques into the healthcare. He found it to be... laughable, in a way. Muggles were but animals in his eyes and yes, perhaps they had some techniques that would be of help considering their current society's loss. But it should be considered a replacement, not an augmentation. A healer was no longer a healer if they had no magic, even if they provided care some other way. They would become muggle doctors instead. He accepted... that people did what they needed to do, but he would not suffer to be put under those ministrations. No, as soon as the borders were open again, he would send word to his uncle so that passage would be easy and quick between London and Russia, should they need a healer's treatment. His family still had muggles chained up in their basement. Any other pureblood family could do whatever they wished in this situation, there were no guidelines or rules that anyone could follow, but the Dolohovs would stick to their own ways. Now and always, for they were people of tradition and culture. Their own culture. People thought the Brits were strict on blood purity? People thought the Brits were violent and cold? They had never been to the more traditionalist territories of Russia. Anyone who saw the way Arkhangelsk was run would think this place to be somewhat close to heaven. Or a children's playground. He knew that his grandson certainly did, that was why he was always playing around with those little friends of his.
    Antonin needed a change of scenery, that was it. So he visited one of the many old places he had liked to frequent with his mother and son, or with Genie. He had been in this place but a few months ago, they remembered him. When Antonin Dolohov entered the restaurant, the maître d hurried to find him a seat- but he motioned to be placed outside. There was only one free table but he knew that they would've cleared one for him if he so desired. That was the way things were- either do as he wished or the place burned down that evening. He wouldn't even have done it himself, he was sure that Vika would've liked the sport. "Thank you. Vodka." He motioned with a dismissive wave of his hand for the man to go before taking a seat. Then, he sank down and opened his robes, to allow for his own movement, before looking to the occupied tables around him. Only one of them contained a sole person, a woman, and he watched her for a few seconds, idly.

words - @ Food for Worms - outfit

by neverland of adoxgraphy 2.0.

[attr="class","reasonwendy"]

[attr="class","reasonbgwendy"]

[attr="class","reasonbigwendy"]

called malice

[attr="class","reasonsmallwendy"]Struggle after struggle, year after year the atmosphere's a fine blend of ice, I'm almost stone cold dead

[attr="class","reasonbodwendy"]It was obvious who the man was.

Wednesday had spent her life growing up in Pureblood society. While she had never been welcome in her father’s little dinner parties and luncheons for those of “high-society,” it didn’t mean that she was oblivious to what was going on. Many times, she would hover near the stairs, watching as guests came into their house in billowing robes, solemn looks on their faces. Or worse yet, expressions that betrayed their utter enjoyment given the state of things.

That was the trouble with Death Eaters, Wendy thought. There was always enjoyment about what they’d done. They could attempt to annihilate an entire group of people: muggleborns, muggles, squibs, etcetera, and still feel joy. It was terrifying, really.

Though a part of her wondered what it would have been like if she had been born with magic. Would she have followed in her brother and sibling’s footsteps? Would Art?

Wendy paused, imagining a world in which she had magic. How would things be different? Perhaps they would have joined the group of elitists…after all, they themselves would have been legacies. Purebloods that were meant to be a part of that elite group of witches and wizards. Perhaps Wendy herself would have become an alchemist. She could hardly see herself giving up science and that field of study had always been of interest to her. It was possible that Art, too, would have become a Death Eater. After all, without a Squib twin sister, he would have no reason to hate their father or their siblings. They would have been indoctrinated so early on.

And yet, the very thought made Wendy feel queasy in her stomach.

She could never be like them, could she?

But perhaps she had turned out more like her father than she cared to admit. He sought to see the end of muggleborns and muggles. And what did she want? The end of the Wizarding World. Did it make her any better or worse than him? Or was she simply…equal?

What would her father say if he knew she’d just assumed their equality? He’d probably have her struck down for blasphemy. Or perhaps he’d finally let Liza and Kyle do with her what they might have that fateful night of the dinner party.

Her eyes lifted again and met those of Antonin Dolohov for the second time this evening and she felt a familiar chill run down her spine. Wendy took in a deep breath, steadying her emotions. Now was not the time to get rash or emotional. Emotions often lead to mistakes and she couldn’t make those. Not right now – not when she was so close to keeping them from finding the answers that they sought. She needed to play it safe…especially for now. In a few years, when they’d all given up hope about finding their cure, perhaps then she could be a little more reckless.

She raised her glass of wine to the man and offered him a small smile, hoping that her expression betrayed nothing of what she felt behind her mask. “Good evening, Lord Dolohov,” she said.

[attr="class","reasontagwendy"]@ lord of robes | 522 | OUTFIT

[attr="class","credwendy"]MADE BY VEL OF WW + ADOX 2.0

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The ghost of a steam train, echoes down my track
It's at the moment bound for nowhere

A little solitude never hurt anybody. The emptiness and the silence often helped one reflect on the events around them, and Antonin certainly had much to reflect on. Lately, things had taken a turn for the worse. The most instinctual thing was to be angry, which he was. It seemed difficult to believe that this was a natural illness, such things didn’t surge out of the blue without a trigger. There was nothing lately that had changed, not enough to cause this. The first patient that had been admitted with the illness was also a healthy young woman from a correct halfblood family, neither healthier nor sicklier than any other child. There was nothing to point towards a natural phenomenon. He was convinced that this had to be man made, which clearly meant that someone had purposely set out to take away people’s magic. Had it been an accident, someone would surely already have come forwards with their mistake and shown evidence of what they had been attempting so as to find out what had gone wrong. No, he was sure that it had been an attack, which meant that there was an enemy to be disposed of. Needless to say, Antonin would not be merciful. He would have his revenge, for his son, for his daughter-in-law. For all of his friends’ children, who he loved as his own. Yes, this was a crime that could not go unpunished and he, having seen much more violence than most, did not say lightly that he would make sure that the outcome was severe.

He was on his own in order to ponder, now. Silence was important for such things, but there were always more silent times to be found. That was the fabric of the world, after all, and noise and conversations were merely interruptions. Therefore, he did not truly mind too much when the silence was broken by a female voice. He had already looked away from her when she spoke, having been too lost in thought to truly let his attention linger on her for too long. However, he did look back ay her with a polite smile. Someone who recognised his face and greeted him politely was, most likely, someone with the correct ideals. Or at the very least, someone with sense and a proper instinct for survival. If someone didn’t like what he stood for, there were several ways to go about it. Either depart, or ignore him, or confront him. The latter was not particularly advised since there weren’t all that many people that would come out of that alive. There was a reason he was as old as he was and that was that he was one of the best fighters around. He wouldn’t say duellers, though he was, because duelling skills didn’t always coincide with fighting in a war. Wars were dirty and they were brutal, duels had rules and were in a controlled environment. Usually.

“Good evening, my dear.” He greeted the young woman, eyes traveling over her features once more. No, he could still not actually place her. How strange- though by now he knew that his memory was selective at best, of course. He may have just forgotten her, though he doubted it. “What is your name? I do not believe we have met.”

words - @ Wes - outfit

by neverland of adoxgraphy 2.0.