Dragonhide suits
(thanks to essayofthoughts!)
Tag: harry potter fashion inspiration
Tullus Antonius, DMLE patrol officer, poses for The Daily Prophet in his uniform for an announcement about his promotion to squadron leader. Anotonius now directs the patrolling of the areas around and including Asserbik, Tanjenchee, and Abissem Alleys.
(Asserbik Alley is the idea of athousanderrors)
Praxis Divyesh Parkinson is known for what is unknown–the powerful head of the Department of Mysteries made headlines after confirming to The Daily Prophet via Patronus the rumors that he personally created seven new rooms in the Department. While the purpose and contents of each room is classified, an investigative reporter claims that there is a nerve-wracking buzzing sound emanating “from somewhere to the left” when there wasn’t any before.
The handsome (and unmarried) Mr. Parkinson could not be reached for further comment.
(source)
He found the world beautiful, when he was finally permitted to step into it. His family were pureblood, after a fashion. Descended of the Gaunts who claimed descent of Slytherin, who in turn, it was said, claimed descent of still older lines, back into time immemorial.
He had been raised in a house kept clean by house elves, been served meals from tables already set with plates and food, had new clothes neatly placed away in his rooms, cleaned up from whatever he left on the floor.
From what he ascertained at school this was not far off from what some rich muggles lived like, though they had human servants, not elves.
But oh, when he got his letter, and he was allowed to be fully inducted into the wonders of the magical world. His family hadn’t worried much – they’d heard him hissing to snakes – but he had been, little Dirk Treason, he’d wondered if he’d had magic enough. It had been an odd choice of his family’s, to keep much of magic from him, until it was known, for certain, that he had magic enough for Hogwarts.
Diagon was bright and colourful to him, Knockturn dark and mysterious, each new alley and neighbourhood he learned of fantastic. He thought – he believed, even – that the magical world was perfect and whole and entirely untouchable, unchangeable.
Then he went to school, and one by one, his illusions shattered.
“Captured by old Nott, my grandfather in Knockturn, in his prime and at the cutting edge of society, really,” says your host, “People do talk about him, but those were fanatical days; Grindelwald had not yet fallen, and everyone had what would now be deemed an unpopular opinion, not just grandfather. And there, on the wall, the portraits – meant to echo each-other – of his father, who was on the Wizengamot, and of mine; they have the general look of the family, as you can see. Great-grandfather of course is also somewhat disliked today; they say he was monstrously unfair, but if truly you read his opinions I think this is exaggerated. One could only do so much before the great Muggle-lovers’ reforms swept in, and he did not believe in judge-made law. I agree. I do think it’s a bit like overstepping one’s station, don’t you?” Here he gives a small laugh. “We have never liked oversteppers, I must say…”
This is an understatement, so you do not comment.
“…of course you’ll note that my father is in the cut he wore back then, when there was a great mania for traditional wizarding regalia and such. When you are a family like ours, you do tend towards tradition. Other people treat it as a bogeyman. Unfairly, I think. But then again there is my son. Here’s his photograph; the very image of my father, only in a great flapping Muggle kind of belted cloak. Very embarrassing, but my wife had Dippy take the picture. A very devoted mother, my wife. It’s a shame we don’t have the women’s portraits in here; they far outstripped the men, I think. Now here–”
“But wait,” you interject, suddenly noticing something very odd, “Where are you? I don’t see your picture anywhere.”
“Oh,” your host says, with a kind of only barely-concealed dread, “Oh. I’m afraid we generally sit for portraits at eighteen, and my eighteenth year was not a portrait-painting sort of time. And of course I’m by far the least prepossessing in the line. A pointed chin, you know.”
And then he sweeps you out of the very imposing, cold room (which looks terribly old, but which they say had to be rebuilt after the war), and a house-elf appears at your elbow to make sure you don’t try to turn back for another glimpse, and there is your host’s mother, distracting you with light, canny talk; and out of the corner of your eye you can see your host looking relieved. Is it because he no longer has to discuss this with you? He is a renowned coward, after all. Far too much of a coward to face the reality of his family, you think. But then you turn your mind back to all those proud brows and haughty chins, and begin to wonder if, really, he is relieved that there is no picture to complete the chain, nothing to demonstrate he may echo his forefathers, no voice which might say, “Oh yes, there is old Draco, who is exactly like the rest of them, really; note how much like his father around the eyes.”
Perhaps the relief is because he would not like to be like them at all.
MissWriteress 