it’s eighteen seventy-fivethey sit around and think everything’s gonna be alright[/b][/SIZE][/font]
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[/i], for the love of Merlin. Things weren’t
that loose yet. When they were, one would think that would be enough. Edward knew the look well. He saw it a lot in his line of work. It was that hunted, hungry expression of men who’d gotten nothing worth mentioning from their wife since the heir was born, who could never hope to get a decent girl tangled in the sheets precisely because she was decent. Without anyone actually telling them as much, they were restricted. Of course, there was the freedom to do as they wished; there was always a cabaret or a dubious gentleman’s club. That should have been enough. Damn it -- it
was enough. Edward could understand the logic behind marrying someone pure, but one hardly planned to carry on the family line with a prostitute. The act would last mere minutes, the memory even less. Who were they to care about the quality of the blood when it pulsed around such ready, tender flesh? They were idiots, for starters. If only that was the end of it, but alas, there was more to it. They were idiots who were slowly doing him out of business. Now Edward too had that hungry look, but with none of the leering; it was simply the gradual caving in of a man who lived on nothing but ale. And day and day again, he heard the same question. There were small variations; small was probably doing them too much justice. ‘Is she pure?’, or, ‘Can I have a pureblood?’, or, ‘You do realise that I won’t lie with muggle filth?’ They all probably thought of themselves as being on pedestals -- the one decent pureblood man, the only one who refused to turn his back on his wife and family unless it was with someone of perfect pedigree. How fucking
noble. Edward could live with hypocrisy; however, hypocrisy that didn’t pay his rent bothered him. The door kept slamming, no matter how clever her retort was. The first time he’d gotten the question, he’d lied and confirmed that his youngest girl was a virgin. It hadn’t been such a stupid slant to take on the question. One sort of purity was quite as impossible to find in a whorehouse as the other. None of his women were, or would ever be, any kind of
pure. It was too late for that. The sheets were stained,and their inhibitions had been torn. The door slammed and slammed again, but the facts couldn’t be swept away along with all the warm air in the building every time it was flung open. You couldn’t manufacture purity, or Edward would’ve started selling it long ago.
You could imitate it, though.
He’d bought a time-turner that year, before business had taken such a turn for the worse. Not for the ability to shift through time itself -- Edward was too practical to much care about that. It was purely the fact that it had somehow ended up at a muggle jumble sale, disguised as a curiosity. Solid gold, only made that year, and it was being pawned off for the price of half a fuck at his charming establishment. (Granted, the better half, but all the same.) The idiot had smiled when he’d handed over the scanty coins, no doubt imagining that he’d pulled off the scam of the day. And so it was his. Very bloody convenient, because now, he had an idea. He’d heard that it wasn’t always like this -- the sexual repression. Though their children denied it prolifically, a generation or two, the Georgians had bed-hopped like there was no tomorrow. Besides, even if that wasn’t the case, if he could persuade some random pureblood women to come back to his era -- even if he could just trick them into it -- they’d be at his mercy. He could control them, and he could certainly use them to supply the new demand for refined meat. Edward was smiling now. It was all so very simple. Fuck around with time, confuse a person or two, and business would be booming before he knew it. Edward was hungrier every day, you see; too hungry to wonder why it’d been so cheap, why the merchant had been so eager to pawn it off on him. He turned it, flicking through centuries with cursory rotations. He kept turning. The clock on the wall ticked eight o’clock in the evening, and the calendar had every day crossed up until December the twenty-eight. It would be a new year soon. How ironic. He kept turning.[/SIZE][/ul]
it’s nineteen forty-seven
shapes, an angel, a devil, no in-between
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[/i]. Get real. Whatever its origins, however, he cherished it. Usually, it was just for itself, but now there was one reason more. The Malfoys had been sorely disappointed after Grindelwald lost the war. All their dreams had been captured in his ideals; all their pride had been incarnated through his march. Step after another, they’d followed willinging behind, and now it was over. Or was it? Some ideas are good, some ideas are bad, and some ideas are downright awful. Abraxas didn’t know which heading his fell under, but there was only one way to find out. He’d save it -- the war. The pureblood cause. It was decided as soon as he dreamed it up. There was only thing Grindelwald had lacked, one edge to sharpen the whole thing up: hindsight. And if a trustworthy pureblood travelled back a decade or so to warn him of his future mistakes? There’d be no beating it. Dumbledore was far too much of a cautious pansy to counteract it. The world would be theirs for the taking. Abraxas had initially planned to tell his father, to double- and triple-check that it was all safe, but he was smarter than that. If he went around disclosing his plan, someone else could easily take all the credit. That simply wasn’t on. It was
his idea, and it would be his rush of glory. Abraxas liked secrets, and this was one to top all others. Good enough. That had been Abraxas’s cattle tag for so long. It branded him, restricted him. You could change the emphasis, but it didn’t change the meaning. Good
enough.
Good enough. It made no difference whatsoever, because he was sick and tired of it. His time was approaching, and it would only reach him when he slipped back ten years from it. He’d be better. Supreme. All it took was one step, one that he was quite prepared to make. Brushing his hair out of his eyes, Abraxas examined the time-turner, ignoring the doubt sinking into him and peppering his bland intentions. He couldn’t turn back. Grindelwald needed him. The world needed him. Above all,
he needed him, if he was ever going to lift this cloud of mediocrity. But yet -- it didn’t seem quite right. The thing had, allegedly, survived centuries, so it would surely live through this. That didn’t explain why his hand was shaking and he kept glancing over his shoulder. The unsettled feeling -- it didn’t explain that, either. But enough of his foolishness. Abraxas bit his lower lip with determination. He had to leave this sort of thinking behind him, or he’d never impress anyone. Misgivings were for women and idiots. He twisted the time-turner with a vigilant eye on how many years he was by-passing, barely hearing the clock on the wall at it ticked over to 8pm. It was just another twenty-eight of December, after all. Nothing to be alarmed about.[/SIZE][/ul]
it’s nineteen-eighty
she speaks in third person so she can forget that she's me
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it’s eighteen seventy-five
doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt thou the sun doth move
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