With the capture of Verandi Farley and several high-ranking Trossach members, the British wizarding world has finally caught a break. The rate of rogue werewolf attacks have started dropping at a steady rate and, hopefully, things will stay that way. The Ministry is starting to loosen some restrictions, like not arresting werewolves standing on the street for loitering, however there’s still an obvious power imbalance between wizardfolk and werewolves.
The Cotswolds pack are continuing to advocate for the rights of werewolves and petitioning to change the legislation that has been set in motion by the current Minister for Magic, whilst the remaining Trossachs members are trying to stay out of the spotlight and keep a low profile… for now.
Whilst the British wizarding world seems to have calmed down, the same cannot be said for over in Northern Europe where a rebellion of magical creatures has risen. The state of things has gotten so bad that the European Ministry has enacted protocols to protect those under eighteen whilst their adult witches and wizards fight to keep control of their countries.
Students from Durmstrang have been sent to Hogwarts to keep them safe and those not old enough to attend school have been sent to live with relatives or designated British Ministry officials outside of Europe for the time being.
Will the low rates of werewolf attacks in Britain continue? How long will Durmstrang students stay at Hogwarts? Will the creatures usurp the wizardfolk in Northern Europe? Only time will tell.
SEPTEMBER 2019 It's been a very long, eventful summer in the wizarding world. A baby was stolen, several high ranking Trossach members were imprisoned, and werewolf attacks have drastically dropped as a result. What will happen now school has returned?
MAY 2019 An attempt to capture the beta of the Trossachs has been launched. Were the Aurors successful in their mission? Go read more here!
Emerald eyes trailed along the gryffindor table, taking their appearances in with crude indifference. It must have been hereditary, Medraut noted, for his family to take precious seconds from their day to acknowledge that which deserved far less. Years ago, he had witnessed his sister performing the same act that he now perpetrated; The keen observations made on each passing face, the delicate click of his tongue when one gryffindor or another caught his immediate ire. She had done the same thing back then, and oh, he had watched her. He had seen the precise movements of her own eyes - that which shone with the same potential as their shared mother’s - as she scrolled up and down their outlines, acknowledging only the smallest of similarities between the two parties. Back then, prior to Morgana’s leave, she had taken great heed to remind him that they had to be cautious in how long they noted each gryffindor head. Too long would catch their eye, but too short would yield nothing but faint memories.
“It’s cataloging,” she had said, “like taking note of how many fish there are in a barrel.”
That had been her mentality. Gryffindors, the brave and bold, were fated to die either within or beyond Hogwarts loyal gates; They were reckless no matter how many warnings they received, their righteousness overruling whatever tepid amount of commonsense they claimed to have. Granted, it may have been kind to imagine that they had sense about them in the first place. Mudbloods and half-breeds made their home in that house, and Medraut could not put into words how happy he was to have been spared such a filthy upbringing. The poor and false made their names synonymous with gryffindor, while the wealthy and true made their legacies into legends behind slytherin’s closed doors.
“You know, if I could, I’d flip their lunch table right on over.” Morgana draped her voice in copious venom, that which stung far more than any basilisk bite could have. “Can you imagine that? How many house points do you think we’d lose for that?” She had paused then, brushing a strand of multi-colored hair back behind her ears, eyes lingering on a passing gryffindor shade. “Do you think it’d be worth it?” She glanced at him. “Never mind. You wouldn’t know.”
She had left the conversation where it was, then. Ignoring him for the rest of the meal, no doubt disappointed in his lack of drive towards the golden house’s destruction. She was direct about her intentions, unlike him; Those who knew her, the few she dared to socialize with beyond their own inner circle, couldn’t have missed the scalding lectures she was sure to give when her voice lowered. She took after their father in that mannerism - Her words were as sharp as her wit, and her wit was unmatched in its lethality.
He didn’t have that. He had the drive to cause trouble, as most of their family had garnered that over a few generations of spite culminating in the younger and older Snyder siblings, but he didn’t coat his words in bristles. They were smooth and refined, tame in comparison to her. To the uninitiated, he may have been far kinder than his older sister would have let the world believe - Of course, that was naught but a lie, seeing as how his strength as a liar was equalized and matched by his knowledge of how to properly navigate a self-created mine-field.
Without thinking, he jabbed his elbow at the slytherin next to him. He knew there was someone there, yet had given them little thought as he studied the settling crowd. “You think any of them are gonna fall off of their brooms this year?”
Walking into the Great Hall, Vinda barely spared a glance at the other students because she knew, without a doubt in her mind, that she looked better than every single one of them. She always did because she put in the effort. Most of these pathetic little dimwits could barely brush their teeth in the morning, let alone their hair, and all that showed to the rest of the word was that they were lazy. They didn't care enough to present themselves properly, they were slobs. They made every fibre of her being want to shudder in disgust.
Smoothing down her skirt primly, Vinda slid into the seat at the Slytherin table, surveying the table full of food. What to eat? After looking over the options - carbs, carbs, and more carbs - she reached for an apple, the shiniest of the bunch, and poured herself a tall glass of water. She was just about to take a bit when suddenly there was somebody jabbing their elbow at her, like she didn't deserve to be addressed by name. It was insulting, quite frankly, but when she heard what they had to say, her indignation dropped and her pretty lips were graced with a smirk.
"Medraut," she greeted, a tinge of rare warmth in her voice. "Who will fall? I imagine almost all of them. It's a shame, considering there's no real skill to flying in the first place. You've got to be very... unimpressive to actually fall off a broom." Taking a bite of her apple, Vinda chewed before swallowing neatly. Then she continued, "But my bet would be on that ghastly Gryffindor beater. She wasn't small last year, and the holidays haven't given her any favours. All that stomach must throw her off balance, don't you think?"
Ah, trash talking. The perfect way to both distract and entertain a Slytherin since the house’s early days. True, it wasn’t the most civilized manner of complimenting others, but who was to say that they weren’t just being coy in their compliments? He dared to say that he was pointing out their flaws for the sake of their improvement, not to tear them down! As if he would have ever been that cruel to a fellow student, as if he would dare to bully someone else! Not on his watch, not at all! No, Medraut was merely trying to be extra observational in his cataloging of potential rivals and enemies, taking mental notes regarding their stature; If they looked like they could have punched him through a wall, then it was all too natural for him to be a little more averse to studying them. Granted, larger people meant larger human shields in the event of the worst case scenario…
On that note, Vinda caught his attention.
The bit of solemn warmth was caught and nearly cherished by the youngest Snyder. Familiarity seeped into his body language once she was settled; Shoulders that had once been held at high attention now dipped slightly, the smallest possible slouch becoming the only true indicator that he felt more at ease than he had seconds ago. He wouldn’t try to describe it, nor would it serve any purpose for him to do so. Vinda was Vinda, he was himself, and they were both habitual members of the trash talking club - er, blunt improvement club. Yes, that would be the name of it. The Blunt Advice and Improvement Club: BAIC, for short. The name would need some work, and likely some interior decorating as well should they have decided to make a base out of something some day - Ah, he was getting caught up in a fictional world again, his mind torn from his fantasies and thrown back into reality by the crude circumstances surrounding their meeting.
“Mm, poor dear.” When he caught sight of her apple, the ever-present copycat would draw his own from the bunch, giving it a quick look over. Still green, but he supposed that was some sort of branding nowadays; Sour was in style, and sweet was being ushered out the door by a load of malicious health addicts. “That’s going to throw off her balance… I wonder if magic will be enough to slow down her fall, or if she’ll just, you know,” He made a splat gesture, apple going against gloved palm, a small sound effect made highlighting the implied action. “That’d be the real shame. It’d be such a mess to clean up, don't you think?”
'Poor dear' made a smirk twist at Vinda's pretty lips almost immediately because whilst poor was accurate, based on the girl's appearance only, dear wasn't a word she'd use to describe the raven-haired seventh year whatsoever. In fact, 'dear' wasn't a word Vinda would use for anyone. "I don't pity her. She brought it on herself without a shadow of a doubt. If Gryffindors had any semblance of self-control, they'd be much better off. Perhaps then they wouldn't be tied for the most mediocre house in Hogwarts." Of course, the other house was Hufflepuff. A bunch of weak-minded, simpering idiots. If any of her relatives were sorted into that house, she'd disown them immediately. It would be a blight on the renowned Selwyn name, after all.
"I'd bet on crashing and burning," Vinda said shortly, taking a loud crunching bite from her apple as she further considered the question at hand. "After all, you actually have to be talented at magic to slow yourself down... but then again, her parents are to blame for her lack of talent. This is what happens when certain people decide to reproduce." That was to say, a person with full-fledged magical blood reproducing with someone who was a half-blood or, sickeningly enough, a mudblood or muggle. Those people were setting up their future kids for failure.
When Medraut demonstrated what may happen if the girl splatted on the ground, Vinda let out a tiny laugh of amusement. Guess then they'd know if her blood was dirty or not. "A 'shame', hmm? Not quite how I'd put it. Maybe it would just be natural selection at work."
The gods pitied Gryffindors. Brave and valiant though they were in battle, their plans lacked wit; They were the muscle, lacking everything other than their distinct sort of “ride or die” belief system. They could handle armies under the right situations, but anything else? Medraut pitied the poor fools when a test rolled around, their minds forever occupied by false adventures of grandeur during class. Their performance on the field was commendable. Everything else - and anything else - about them was… mediocre at best. They were the heart of the houses, yet that did not mean that they were qualified enough to be the mind. That role fell to Ravenclaw, though - in brute frankness - he didn’t have much to say about that particular group. They were products of whatever books they had shoved their faces into earlier in the day, personalities shifting based off of whatever main character they decided to idolize. Granted, they were better than the unkept scourges in Hufflepuff… He was getting off topic.
The point was that - against the praise that generations liked to throw onto them - the Gryffindor breed was one of filth and clumsy intuition, winning games by chance and ruining lives by fate. They were worse than the Slytherins by far; At the very least, the snakes had enough common sense to weave around the rules instead of breaking through them. While Gryffindors smashed through regulations, the opposing house would flatter and compliment until their lies got through to blank minds. It was a lying and cheating ideal, a dishonest lifestyle incarnate… but that was, after all, what he had been living since the start. Tolerance or none, with the world or without it, there was truth to the fact that he had not grown above his resentment for the scarlet caped fools.
“Certain people.” He scoffed. Dirty, filthy, pathetic little things that should have been glad to live in a world where they could be guided to the best opportunity by the kind and careful hands of Slytherins - That was to say, they should have been happy to be exposed to such a belief system, for it only had their best interests in mind. “Natural selection should have dealt with them before they even got in bed.” A vulgar reference matched only by the slips of venom on his tongue. “Filthy, the lot of them. And their funerals aren’t much better.”
When Medraut repeated Vinda's words, the Slytherin girl gave a curt nod because yes. Certain people included purebloods who were too weak-willed, too spineless, to uphold the belief system of their ancestors, giving into temptation and falling into bed with the people they wanted. But that's not how the pureblood world worked, everyone knew that. Should you want to keep your family proud, you needed to marry and reproduce with those who were your equals. Those who had similar blood lines, and who held the correct beliefs. It was only proper.
"If only Merlin had the sense to deal with them beforehand," Vinda said, wholly believing her own words and Medraut's too. She couldn't help but enjoy his company, as he came from a similar upbringing as her. They held similar beliefs, something that was rare in this day and age which was ludicrous because they were in the right. To suggest otherwise to Vinda would bring on an absolute reckoning. "They truly are filthy. The thought of them makes my skin crawl."
Moving along to other subjects, Vinda pushed her long blonde waves over her shoulder before asking, "and how was your break? Did you get up to anything enjoyable?"
Thrones were tricky things. He had been sat upon one at birth, ready to seize control over whatever fortune his family held close to the hearts. He was several paces behind the king, as one would have expected from a boy so young and yet so cruel, but he was in line for the throne nonetheless. There was no denying the fact that he had a right to the throne stronger than his rebellious sister, and one equal to that of other pureblood families. He was fit to be their ruler, one of the numerous voices who crowded the world’s stage. They sung with harmony in mind and only brought discord, while he sung with discord and invited harmony with the same breath. It was an interesting paradox brought about via nature and nurture combined - and one that, to his rightful decree, would remain otherwise unnoted. The best thing to do was to ignore the temporary claim in favor of getting a grasp on the world around him; It was better to observe others than it was to sit by and ignore what was happening, even if they were lower in breed than he was. They would be his subjects eventually, the followers of his will and testament - and that gave him reason enough to take notice of them, albeit in the same manner that a boot took notice of an ant.
Surely Vinda was the same. If nothing else, perhaps he could find it in his heart to respect her solely for the fact that she shared a similar view to him in theory; Certain people shouldn’t have dared to go near the sheets, let alone spend their lives with filth tainting marble. The world had become full of those disgusting little people, desperate to upheave society and happy to disobey the conventions set up thousands upon thousands of years prior. In times where the universe turned on its head, it was a small comfort to know there was someone else at the school who was aware of it too.
That was always going to be a relief.
“Certain people should have a wit of common sense about them.” A lazy huff, the Slytherin eyeing a new Gryffindor arrival; Small, still sporting babyfat, and filled with dreams that he would personally annihilate. “Look at them. They’re like oxen: Slow and stupid and bothersome all at once.”
"Certain people should, however I find that majority of people are lacking in common sense... or style, or taste," Vinda said, voice cool as she surveyed the rest of her peers, distaste written across her features as plain as day. It really wasn't a good look for any of them, being so lacklustre in life. She didn't like mudbloods or half-bloods or creatures as it was, but they were in her world. They should be making a concerted effort of making a good impression to make up for all of their shortcomings. She still wouldn't respect them, but she may have held a tiny ounce of appreciation somewhere within her.
Vinda hummed in agreement at Medraut's comparison to them being like oxen. He was right, of course. "Hideous too," she said, off-handedly. "They often keep in herds as well. Perhaps that's for the best, staying with their own kind. It gives people like us a better chance to shine, make an even better name for ourselves. Nobody achieved greatness being one in the same, after all."
In an attempt to move the conversation along, Vinda took a bite of her apple once more before gesturing to the Professors table at the front of the hall. "Which classes have you enrolled in this year? Any of the new professors?" She'd already taken a potions class with Professor Tyrell, who was okay, and heard several things about the muggle studies professor. There were a few rumours swirling around about Professor Avery too, the ex-Auror who taught History of Magic and who'd retired from the Ministry amidst the werewolf drama.
A low laugh emerged from the pureblood, his understanding of the situation slowly dwindling from intrigue into utter crass and otherwise uncivilized humor. It was the opposite of what his mother and father raised, in truth; He was brought up to disrespect people with a sharp tongue, his insults cunning enough to be masked as compliments for a day or two. How they would have both been ashamed in his current role, forced to share a school - and a prestigious one at that - with filth who bleed mud and spat up oil. It was a pathetic turn of events, now that he thought about it: Both of the Snyder siblings had attended Hogwarts, one of them upfront about her dislike of the lower classes, and one of them more… refined in his mannerisms towards them. Not enough to spare them a quick jab during conversation, nor enough to spare them from whatever cruelties his mind cooked up at night, but enough to pass as someone who may have only held the slightest bit of hatred for them. He was a cunning actor, Medraut Snyder.
With any luck, the rest of the world would remain oblivious to that fact for the time being.
“Oh, don’t even mention their looks.” His eyes rolled with the statement, each syllable draped in the sort of sweet venom that only a naturally born snake could produce. He’d owe Slytherin his life for the comradery it gave him with other… malcontent students, but more so for the fact that it taught him how to mask disgust as concern. Wounds could be treated with healing spells. Fools could be treated with lessons. Mudbloods and other sicknesses could only be treated, thereby, with the simple solution of abstaining from dirtying the mouth with their unfortunate state of being. “Don’t you know? Talking about their fashion sense takes yours down by twenty.”
He’d pause at her last question, pursing his lips. Frankly, he cared for classes only as much as the classes cared for him; In the event that his interest waned in the professor or subject matter, then he was better off ditching the knowledge all together. That wasn’t to say he was a poor student, for Medraut prided himself on his knowledge and repertoire to share with younger generations, but… To that extent, he was horribly bad with remembering his own schedule. He would have sooner recalled his own moment of birth than dared to trek back in his memory to acquire the faces of halfblood dirt that somehow wormed their way into Hogwarts. “I’ve enrolled in a few classes here and there, nothing special.” He’d shrug, offering nothing but the bare minimum in terms of identifying his own professors. “As for the professors... Well, most of them are extraordinary as you’d expect. Just… not what I expected in some cases.”
The way that Medraut rolled his eyes whilst telling her not to mention his looks seemed to indicate that he agreed with her and of course he did because she was right. It was a rare occasion when she was wrong, in fact, and she prided herself on that fact. But then he was saying talking about their fashion sense takes hers down and immediately, an icy change flickered over Vinda's features. Her eyes grew steely, and her nostrils flared a tiny bit. "I hope you're not trying to tell me what I can and cannot talk about, Medraut. If that's the case, then perhaps I need to find somebody who can has an eye for fashion and talk to them instead."
"It's Hogwarts. Of course there's nothing special here. It's nothing like Beaxubatons, or so I've heard. Even Durmstrang is meant to be a better learning institution." But oh, how she wished to attend Beauxbatons instead of this godforsaken place where the Professors like O'Connor endangered their students during their classes and they let just... anyone teach, even if they were a mudblood. How could someone of that kind be qualified to teach pureblood students? "Let's just hope these Professors are capable of keeping their students safe from those creatures outside." Those werewolves, the disgusting blight on the wizarding world, even worse than wizards born from muggles. She couldn't stand them. That's why she was working with Pierre, trying to... solve the problem, before it got any worse.
