D'EATH, Alistair Bartimus
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D'EATH, Alistair Bartimus

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D'EATH, Alistair Bartimus Empty D'EATH, Alistair Bartimus

Post by Theodore Rookwood Sun Oct 02, 2011 3:08 am

D'EATH, Alistair Bartimus Caseytaylor1



    FULL NAME: Alistair Bartimus D’Eath

    AGE AND BIRTHDAY: Twenty-Four | January 21st 2000

    SEXUALITY: Heterosexual.

    ALLEGIANCE: Death Eaters.

    HOGWARTS HOUSE: Slytherin Alumni.

    WAND: Yew, Kelpie + Veela Hair core, 13 inches, rigid.

    PLAY BY: Casey Taylor.


    HAIR COLOR: Dark Brown.

    EYE COLOR: Dark Brown.

    HEIGHT: 6’2

    BODY TYPE: Tall, broad shouldered, well built.

    Notable Aspects of his appearance:

    - Jawline.
    - Eyes.
    - ‘Fluffy’ hair.
    - Tattooed torso - runic tattoos mainly, protective magic and the like.
    - Burns across upper arms from various spells.
    - Scar across his cheekbone from where Patricia struck him.
    - Two sets of Azkaban identification dog tags, one set belonging to him, another to Hyperion Rhodin.
    - Well dressed - after Azkaban, Alistair figures he deserves the pampering.
    - Too pink lips.
    - Has what his father calls ‘scruffy elegance’.
    - A mole to the side of his left eye.
    - Still quite noticeably underweight if one looks close enough.
    - His joints click and crack with nearly every movement.
    - His fingers are usually blackened from carelessness with a wet quill.
    - He nearly always smells of parchment and Firewhisky, or some other spirit or wine.


    001. Organized.
    002. Articulate.
    003. Graceful.
    004. Resourceful.
    005. Educated.
    006. Assertive.
    007. Empathetic. (when it suits)
    008. Thoughtful Brooding.
    009. Inventive.
    010. Charismatic.

    001. Impatient.
    002. Elusive.
    003. Surly.
    004. Cynical.
    005. Temperamental.
    006. Sadistic.
    007. Vindictive.
    008. Obsessive.
    009. Prejudiced.
    010. Unfaithful/disloyal.

    STRONG AREA OF MAGIC: Defence Against/Dark Arts

    WEAK AREA OF MAGIC: Divination

    001. Toast.
    002. Warmth.
    003. Cranberry juice.
    004. Screamers.
    005. Quidditch.
    006. Tea.
    007. Power.
    008. The Dark Mark.
    009. Blood.
    010. Revenge, as a rule.

    001. Aurors.
    002. Azkaban.
    003. Mudbloods.
    004. Half-Breeds.
    005. To be insulted.
    006. His family.
    007. Dampness.
    008. Dementors.
    009. People who forget their place.
    010. Stairs and blonde women teetering at the very top -- he just gets the urge to push them.

    Primary Goal: Wipe out Aurors + Order of the Phoenix.
    Secondary Goal: Get to know his siblings a little better.

    BOGGART: He’ll die having failed to kill those responsible for Emmaline + Hyperion’s deaths.

    PATRONUS: The day he married Emmaline.

    DEMENTOR: Emmaline’s death, swiftly followed by Hyperion’s.

    VERITASERUM: He wishes he’d killed his father as well.

    MIRROR OF ERISED: To see Emmaline again.


    Probably best to go and read the history. The history makes him, what is listed and vaguely explains does not do him quite as much justice. If you want his personality though, go and read the traits because it gives a half decent outline as to what he’s like.


    FATHER: Lorcan D’Eath

    MOTHER: Melancholia Launceleyn née Castillo - Deceased

    STEP-FATHER: Peter Launceleyn - Deceased

    Antoinette D’Eath
    Alexis D’Eath
    Christina D’Eath
    Damien D’Eath
    Damitrius D’Eath

    Two deceased maternal half-siblings.

    WIFE: Emmaline Parkinson - Deceased

    Hyperion Rhodin - deceased.
    Asteria Rhodin - deceased.
    Hestia and Demeter

    NATIONALITY: English

    BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood.

    RACE: Part-Vampire via father.

    SOCIAL STATUS: Middle Class.

    HOME TOWN: London, England.

    CURRENT PLACE OF RESIDENCE: Camden, London borough.

    Azkaban Identification dog tags - his and Hyperion’s.



    The spring of 1999 was the backdrop for a romance, one much like the other’s Lorcan D’Eath had courted in the past. The young Melancholia Castillo was not unlike his conquests on the continent but the fundamental difference was that she had a touch of power to her, giving Lorcan more of a reason to want her company bar the simple need to bed her. What the serial Casanova did not realise was that Melancholia knew how to court a man and knew more than her fair share of how to keep them interested and so it was from early January that year that Melancholia pressed her claws into the part-vampire. It was perhaps to be the niavest of conquests Lorcan would ever have and it most certainly set him up for her successor, and her successor’s successor, and the successor after that successor.

    Lorcan, having returned from Germany after leaving Northern Ireland to go in search of the colony of Vampires rumoured to be present in the woodland there, was weary and battle worn. Melancholia was still a child, as her mother frequently reminded her. Child or not, though, she knew the world; or at least, she believed she did. Her seventeenth birthday was mere weeks away and she was eagerly anticipating the big reveal that would take place that night. She was to have yet another suitor and though she tried to be happy about the prospect, about the security, Melancholia couldn’t help but dream about having something a little bit more than just a Pureblood marriage, the product of which would hopefully be a son. At the time, she worked in a little cafe not far from King’s Cross Station where Lorcan had emerged early that afternoon and it was in that coffee shop that the lovers met for the first time.

    The first meeting wasn’t to be an awkward, blush and giggled filled affair but Melancholia was stunned by the part-vampire none the less. She had immediately rushed out from behind the counter, damp cloth in hand, to tend to the cut across his cheekbone. It was to be impossible for Lorcan to forget the concerned look on the young girl’s face. Her expression was burned into his mind with every second that blinked by. It was only when she pulled away and stuttered something about getting him a cup of coffee and a crumpet that Lorcan realised not only where he was but what was going on. He’d backed out from the encounter immediately, finding no desire to wipe a smile onto his lips and flirt easily with the girl. Instead he burst back out on the street, his countenance falling apart in his fatigue-ridden state, and jogged with what little energy he had left to the Leaky Cauldron where Tom the bartender set him up for the night.

    The coming days were distracted ones for the pair of them as their thoughts seemed to concern little more than each other. Lorcan was easing himself back into the magical world and Melancholia was resigning herself to the fact that she would never see that strange man again. How wrong she was, though. Not a week after their first meeting (of sorts), they bumped into each other again, this time in Diagon Alley. The force of their collision spilled Melancholia’s things out onto the cobbled street and Lorcan had immediately reached down to collect them, for her. She hastily took her books when he offered them to her and turned to hurry away, only stopping when he called her. She turned hesitantly and looked at him with wide eyes as he held up the quill. It would be a cliché to say that time stood still but for them it felt as if it had. Neither one paid attention to the people bustling by and it was there that Lorcan formally introduced himself and apologised for his rudeness by asking her out to dinner.

    It was a classic.

    It would be ridiculous to think that Lorcan eventually developed feelings for Melancholia but there was something that kept him hooked on her through those long months. She’d dance around him, her eyes alight and a smile upon her lips. She’d tease him mentally and sexually, ruining the moment before anything could happen as far as the latter was concerned. It only took one time though; one time where they’d drunk too much after attending a party in the late April of 1999. They’d stumbled back to the room Lorcan was still letting, having gotten a job at Diagon Alley. That one time - the first and only time she let the latter bit of fun go to the point where Lorcan got what he’d been waiting for. Tumbling out of the clothes they’d gone out in and falling into bed, their laughter ringing in the air around them, they were caught up in a blur of kisses, limbs, sheets and moans. And in the morning, Lorcan was gone.

    There wasn’t a note, just a lily and a clean set of clothes for her. Melancholia never actually saw Lorcan again. He’d gone, grappling with the odd emotions that stirred within him that morning as he’d looked upon his slumbering lover. He headed north, out of London having paid his tab, and settled somewhere there where he went through countless women before finding the next woman to have his child. Melancholia meanwhile remained in London where, much to her dismay, her stomach began to grow in size. Her parents, distraught and inconsolable, threw her from the townhouse she’d grown up in with the few worldly possessions her house elf had managed to sneak from her bedroom. She retreated to the Leaky Cauldron with what little money she had and, ironically, was put up in the very room she and Lorcan had slept in that night.

    And as much as she wanted to hate him, she couldn’t bring herself to do so. He had given her the best months of her life and though she hadn’t wanted the memento, she had made her bed and she had no choice but to lie in it. Over the next nine months, her mother visited infrequently, often suggesting that Melancholia give the child up when it was born. Every time, the younger woman declined the offer and the elder woman went on her way perturbed as ever. It was during these months that she got a job pushing papers at the Ministry and it was there as she waddled down to the cafeteria in one of the latter months of her pregnancy that she met the handsome, and unfortunately married, Peter Launceleyn.


    January 2000 was the snowy scenery that went with the birth of Alistair. His mother, at the time of labour, had been visited by Peter Launceleyn who at the time was being increasingly forward and specific in his intentions towards her. He wanted to marry her, he’d expressed on many times. However on this occasion he announced that he was in the midst of getting a divorce -- so he could marry her. To this day, Melancholia puts the shock of that down to the reason why she went into labour. Alistair was a few days late as it was but the Healers had no intentions of doing anything about it until he was at least a week gone. Peter, in a rush of adrenaline, managed to scoop up the dainty yet rounded young woman and took the Floo to St. Mungo’s. It was there that Alistair was born, his mother only just reaching the labour ward in time as he began to crown. He was a healthy weight and was passed to Peter almost immediately after Melancholia had her hold of him as it was assumed at the time that Peter was the boy’s father.

    However much she wanted to lie and put Peter’s name down on the certificate of birth, she could not for Peter wasn’t Alistair’s father. Wearily, she scribbled down her son’s name, her name and Lorcan’s name, leaving quite a few spaces pertaining to him blank. She received some dubious looks from the Healers and quite a few glances were thrown over to Peter but nothing was said and they swept the certificate away to copy, one for file and the other for Melancholia to keep. The next few days allowed her to rest in a comfortable bed without fear of being woken up by the squeals of women in the bedroom next door as yet another ‘gentleman’ clambered across the room so as to drag them back to bed. By Thursday though, Melancholia had no choice but to wrap up her boy and take him back to the Leaky Cauldron where she imposed her own exile.

    She had very little of what was needed for a baby, so much so that for the first few weeks everything relied on her magic working - which it often did not. It wasn’t until Alistair was three or four weeks old that there was a knock on her door. She placed the boy in the makeshift crib she’d transfigured out of a plank of wood and opened the door to reveal Peter standing sheepishly in the hallway wearing an optimistic expression and grasping a small suitcase in his left hand. He announced the divorce had been finalised and she hesitantly let him in, unsure as to his motives. He explained hastily that first and foremost he wanted them to be friends and that the divorce had nothing to do with her, “honestly.” Peter parted without the suitcase, instructing Melancholia to open it whenever she felt she needed it and that time came sooner than she would have thought.

    It was that very weekend that she thrust open the suitcase, the contents of which was more than she could have ever hoped for. Inside was everything she was sure she would ever need to care for the child but she had not a single clue where she would find Peter to thank him. The man had been a victim of falling in love at first sight and the kind hearted silly sod was determined to woo Melancholia despite knowing very little about her. Gossips had told him of her plight and so with the money he had on him he’d bought up whatever he thought she’d need and had taken it to her in the hope to at least make her trust him.

    They didn’t see each other for a while after that and it was with the contents of the suitcase that Melancholia began to raise and look after Alistair properly. He grew, happy and healthy over those months and it was when he turned six months old that Melancholia made the decision to go back to work. She didn’t want to - Merlin knew she didn’t want to - but she left Alistair with an elderly witch who lived in a ramshackle house between Knockturn and Diagon Alley throughout the day while she worked at the Ministry and returned at dusk to retrieve him.

    It was rare for her to read him a bed time story now or even be around during the day, and at such a pivotal time too as it was during these days he spent at the little old witch’s house that Alistair began to show signs of magic. Strange things would happen, things that couldn’t be explained. The cats would go missing if they’d not given Alistair the attention he wanted. Plates would fall from shelves and people would feel unsettled if they were to turn their backs on him. He required near constant attention both from the little old witch and those that came to visit her. He was a charming, plucky little boy that would sit against the floral sofa she had in her lounge and play with whatever he could get his hands on until someone came to visit, at which time he needed their undivided attention. Those who came to visit the old witch thought nothing of the strange happens because they all wanted to amuse the small child. No one thought for a second that his displeasure and examples of magic were the cause of the occurrences.

    It was around Christmastime that Peter wandered back into Melancholia’s life. He turned up once more outside the room she was renting in the Leaky Cauldron and formally invited her to a ‘small get together’ at his home in Wales on the twenty-third. Melancholia was quick to decline but Peter was persistent, going as far as to walking her to work and promising to fund everything to ensure she could go. She promised him lunch instead and because of that lunch date she forgot to go and see Alistair at the little witch’s house. The boy was not naive. Even then he was intuitive. He did not immediately assume the worst had happened. Even at his tender age, on the brink of his first year, he had a feeling something was about to change. That day was perhaps one of the worst of all for accidental magic because all of the crockery in the house was destroyed not a moment after his gushing mother walked past the living room window on the arm of Peter Launceleyn.

    Christmas came and went, as did his birthday, and Melancholia was increasingly absent. The one year old was already beginning to totter around the little house that belonged to the little old witch and his magic, used for his own gain and not for malicious purposes, was really beginning to show through to the witch. He’d drag himself up to his feet using one of the coffee tables and he’d manage a few steps before tipping forward. Something would catch him though and giggling could be heard from the living room over the whistle of the kettle on the hob and the lady would walk through to see the boy sitting where she’d left him, his fingers worming through the fur of the teddy in his hands, a pensive look on his face. Then he’d turn and smile at her - his smile, the smile that read that she’d never know him. And if she ever read into that smile, then its meaning was right. She would never know him - none of them would.


    By the time Alistair was two, he only saw his mother in the mornings and in the evenings. Melancholia, enamoured with her new beau, was quickly putting Lorcan out of her mind and anything she associated with the part-vampire - meaning she was forgetting about Alistair also. Such abandonment should have had him in tears every morning she handed him over to the little old lady but much had changed at the town house wedged between Diagon and Knockturn Alley. Now, Alistair had his very old room. Knocky though it was, it was his and it was a damnsight better than the one room and double bed he had to share with his wayward mother. They had yet to move from the Leaky Cauldron and Alistair was considering the pub to be nothing more than a place he had to go. It was the ramshackle house that he considered his home and the people inside were his family.

    It was just before Alistair turned two that the old lady’s son returned home from Azkaban though at the time Alistair hadn’t a clue what it was and the old lady ghosted over it as much as possible, telling him that it was a very nice place to go for holidays and that the people there were very accommodating. The old lady’s son had been away for a long time, she’d told Alistair one morning as he’d shovelled spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth, and she’d missed him very much. At the time, Alistair most definitely did not know the ins and outs of what went on but he was infinitely glad the old lady was happy. It was during this time that he had taken to calling her ‘Grandma’, firstly because it was something he’d heard a few of the boys in the Leaky Cauldron say to the elderly women they were with and secondly it was the only word apart from ones with single syllables that he did not slur. He also learned that morning over his soggy bowl of Frosties that the woman’s son was called Hyperion and that after his trip it was probably best to not ‘bother’ him.

    But Alistair, being the curious child he was, clambered up the stairs when the old lady’s back was turned and followed the sounds of heavy breathing until he stumbled across Hyperion’s room. He nudged the door open with his palm and poked his head through, his dark eyes swivelling around the room in search of the man. It didn’t take a moment for Alistair to find him. His eyes fell on the bare, tattooed chest of the young man and he crawled across the worn carpet towards the bed in which Hyperion lay. He tugged himself up onto his feet using the sheets that were drawn tight around the man and he slowly pulled himself up onto the bed to get a closer look. In hindsight, perhaps Alistair should have known better but he soon found himself sat on Hyperion’s stomach, his fingers tracing the different tattoos that decorated the man’s pale skin.

    Impatience was a trait that plagued Alistair even then and he quickly grew bored of the tattoos, despite how intrigued he would come to be with regards to them as the years wore on. However, as a child of no more than two he did not find tattoos interesting. They were pretty pictures for a few moments but they got boring and so Alistair went in search of other ways to amuse himself. After looking around the room, taking in everything it beheld and cocking his head to the side at the sight of a bare breasted woman on a poster pinned to the wall, Alistair set about waking Hyperion up, having forgotten all about her warning of not to bother the man. Alistair tried everything from slapping the face of the man to dropping a pillow on his head. He quickly tore the latter away though leaned over Hyperion, a frown etched on his plump face. A grin soon spread across it though as a stroke of genius hit Alistair like a bolt of lightning. The boy heaved himself up off of the man’s stomach and dropped himself back down again, throwing all of his weight into it so as to create an impact that would surely wake Hyperion up.

    And it did.

    Hyperion shot up into a sitting position, his chest heaving; throwing Alistair back onto the bed, his legs in the air. The latter of the two let out a squeal of discontent at the mistreatment and Hyperion’s eyes fell to the little boy in a blue sailor’s outfit who looked more than a little guilty. He lifted the boy up and peered at him curiously, trying to deduce whether or not he was some sort of threat. Alistair painted an expression of innocence on his face and reached out for Hyperion, his hand grappling for the silver chain around his neck. Hyperion scowled a little and dropped his eyes between them, watching as the little fist curled around the tags on the chain that had been clasped around his neck many years before. Alistair did what most children his age did do. Despite his physical and mental maturity, he was still two and so once he had the tag in his grasp, he clamped his mouth around them, making an impression and a half on Hyperion.

    The two spent an hour sat on the elder man’s bed. Hyperion humoured Alistair by replying to the boy’s babbles and the latter amused the former by showing him his magic and explaining with as many words as he knew how he used it. It was in that hour that Alistair found out he was something special - he found out that he was a wizard. Hyperion wasn’t specific about many things but he told Alistair that once he turned eleven he would be going to the finest school the wizarding would knew - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Alistair, overjoyed that he wasn’t the only wizard in the world, demanded Hyperion show him a spell of sorts, putting the elder wizard in a bit of a pickle. As much as he wanted to placate the charming boy, he could not. His wand had been seized upon his admission to Azkaban and it would be another six months before he had it back in his possession.

    So instead of showing Alistair some magic himself, Hyperion pulled a pair of jeans on, plucked the boy off of the bed and took him downstairs where his mother had turned the living room upside down in her search for Alistair. It took several calls of ‘Mum’ before she noticed that Hyperion had the boy and she immediately took him back into her arms, pressing kisses to his little mop of dark hair and whispering for him to never scare her like that again. With a smirk on his face, Hyperion mentioned that Alistair wanted to see some magic and immediately, the woman’s expression changed to that of someone utterly unimpressed with her son. She acquiesced, though, and plopped Alistair down on the couch for a few moments before flourishing her wand and turning it on her son. She flicked it and, to the delight of Alistair, a beam of fuchsia light bounced from the tip, hitting Hyperion in the chest. The man’s hair immediately turned the same colour as the light and Alistair’s giggles punctured the room, making the mother and son forget about their irritation with one another.

    Home from Azkaban and supposedly having washed his hands with evil, Hyperion put a lot of his energy into amusing Alistair. His spare time though was spent in Knockturn Alley where he began to garner some business once more. Alistair was spending an increasing amount of time at the house of the old witch at her son and it was rare for Melancholia to show her face by this point. Alistair thought nothing of it. Instead he found it a much better way of getting on with what he was doing and retreated to either his room or Hyperion’s when night fell. He was incredibly good at looking after himself and often brushed off his ‘Grandmother’ when she attempted to help him. Not always though and he certainly didn’t brush Hyperion’s offers to give him a helping hand, increasing the bond between the two boys.

    It was during the summer after his third birthday that the people Hyperion went to visit in Knockturn Alley began to visit him. A pair of Pureblood witches and a third Pureblood, a Wizard, would often show up on the doorstep and Hyperion would hastily invite them in. Alistair was the tension breaker, bringing out the maternal sides of the women and taking the edge off of all of them. It allowed them to speak about business opportunities without fear of things getting violent as no one would raise their wand in front of the baby - just in case a spell went astray. It was during those meetings that Alistair heard the word Azkaban mentioned time and time again. He began to form the opinion that Azkaban wasn’t simply the nice holiday home his grandma had told him it was. No, he realised that it was something very, very different though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what exactly. Something wasn’t right though. Something was very, very wrong.


    By his fifth birthday, Alistair hadn’t seen his mother for something close to three years and by his sixth, it was four. These years were the most pivotal of all because Alistair had forgotten all about his mother. He remembered her face and occasionally he’d dream of Melancholia but he could not recall her name and he certainly couldn’t recall her face when he was awake. This didn’t bother him though. He thought nothing of a mother and nothing of a father. He considered his life with Hyperion and the little old witch - Asteria - to be nothing out of the norm. He didn’t realise that there was something bizarre about it until he was allowed out of the house. Young though he was, he was tall for his age even then and with his dark expressive eyes and the overgrown mop of ebony hair, Alistair was the picture of poise and grace buttoned into the crisp white shirt that Asteria had ironed him out the night before. He didn’t look his age and certainly, even then, was able to bend the truth and bend the people around him into believing certain things.

    Alistair’s magic was flourishing and he displayed a lot of control over it. It was that that caught the attention of the witches that would occasionally go to visit Hyperion; Hestia and Demeter. The six year old wasn’t at first aware of who they were but once the taller of the two had enveloped him in her robes and he smelt the familiar burst of sweet perfume, he remembered them. Their names, he could not quite recall as well as their smell but the way they doted on him at home was soon remembered and Alistair couldn’t rip the smile off of his face as they took him through Diagon Alley, into the toy shops and the sweet shops. What the boy did not miss was the way the shop owners cowed under the shadows of the women. The effect the girls had on the men and women behind the counters gave Alistair a sense of empowerment and a sense of pride because it was those that everyone seemed to fear that had taken a shine to him.

    The doted upon him that day, tossing away the shiny gold as if it were the bronze coins that Alistair had seen Hyperion fritter away so many times before. It was while they were sat outside on the tables of the Ice Cream Parlour that Alistair first caught site of the Dark Mark. Emblazoned boldly onto the creamy left forearm of the blonde that had noticed him first, Alistair’s interest was piqued instantly. Boldly, he released his hold of the spoon and reached forward, pushing back the scarlet material that covered her body and accentuated the curves she possessed. The mark was revealed to him, shining proud and true against her skin. As if Alistair hadn’t been bold enough, he allowed his fingers to trace the lines that made up the beautiful tattoo. With parted lips and a dry throat, he realised that he wanted that same mark. The other woman was quick to show him hers and he traced it with his tiny, delicate little fingers just as he had done the other.

    In the Muggle World, there is much debate over what children should know and what they shouldn’t. In the Wizarding World, there is very little and so the women did not spare a thought to the pros and cons of explaining to Alistair what they did. They explained the beauty of the mark, and how special it truly was. They told him about the Death Eaters, about Lord Voldemort and everything they stood for. They didn’t get to finish the tale though. Abruptly, they were interrupted by an enraged Hyperion who suggested through gritted teeth that they all retreat back to his mother’s home. It was during that brisk walk back that Alistair realised what the significance of Knockturn Alley was but he still failed to understand what he was getting into - that by knowing he was a product of the war, he was no longer just an innocent bystander.

    Something the girls had also brushed over was Azkaban, bringing up Alistair’s previous suspicions that the place was far from the resort his grandmother had told him about when he was younger. No, when they returned to the house, Hyperion told Alistair all he needed to know through the red mist that consumed him. He was only a hair’s width away from striking the first woman when he realised he’d done wrong and he begrudgingly lowered his hand, only to collapse onto the couch, his fingers gliding through the front of his hair as he sorted through his thoughts. He finally allowed for the girls to continue their story and Alistair was heaved up onto Hyperion’s lap so he could listen.

    And listen he did.

    The girls told him of the wonders of the first kill, of the way the Mudbloods screamed. At some point, Hyperion lit the log in the hearth and the yearning to take part in what they did began to glow in Alistair’s eyes and flicker like the dancing flames in the fireplace. He yearned for the adventure but he was braced with words regarding Azkaban and the dangers of it, though Hyperion did not go into near as much detail regarding that as the girls had with regards to everything else. No, by comparison, Hyperion was quite reserved though he had allowed Alistair to seek out the mark on his arm, and trace it as he had done with the girls.

    It was safe to say that Asteria did not take well to the scene before her when she returned home, the sight of the tall, gangly boy she’d raised for the most part caressing the skin of her son’s arm with featherlike touches, a look of comprehension in his adoring gaze. Asteria had said nothing in the past pertaining to what had happened to Hyperion and she had previously had no intention of ever telling Alistair. She saw the way the boy looked so intently upon the mark though and she took it upon herself in that moment to take the child away, to prevent his mind from being poisoned by what he’d heard or was about to hear. And though her intentions were pure, Asteria was far, far too late. It didn’t matter how far away she took him. She could have brought him to the very end of the earth but that wouldn’t have changed a thing. His path was fixed into place with the promise of power and the passion of the kill that was displayed in the eyes of Demeter. Alistair had his track and whether he realised it or not, he was determine to follow it.


    A month or so after ‘the incident’ (as Asteria liked to refer to it as), Alistair was enrolled into school. With what wealth she had, Asteria used it to fund the fees the school demanded so Alistair was able to attend. He knew the basics of nearly everything. Hyperion had taught him to read, to write and had encouraged him to talk. The man had been a father figure neither Alistair’s real father nor his step-father had ever been and it seemed almost cruel for her to take him away from Hyperion as she had done. Asteria felt it necessary, though. She thought that by sending him to a Muggle school in London she could somehow remove the stigma that Demeter and Hestia had managed to instil in the boy within a single day.

    She had never pegged Alistair to be impressionable and despite her choice which he (and Hyperion) had vehemently disagreed with, he was still the quiet, thoughtful boy he’d always been. He hadn’t said a word against a single Muggle or a Muggleborn and certainly hadn’t uttered a word about the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters. She would catch him occasionally, stroking the inside of his forearm. She didn’t know whether he noticed what he was doing, whether it was deliberate or done subconsciously, but she knew something needed to be done and she was determined to prevent him from following the same path Hyperion had.

    Impressionable, Alistair was though and what they had told him appealed to his need for power, the need for control that had flared ever since he was neglected by visitors as a baby. Asteria had done her best but it was far, far too late for Alistair. No, he was on a rickety path no one could save him from now. Whether he realised it or not, no one will know, but if he did one must wonder what he sought to gain bar power, and what he thought he would gain. Asteria had been brave and almost naive in thinking she could change the boy who had been turned towards a different idea, turned permanently. Surrounding him with Muggles was perhaps the worst thing she could have ever done.

    Alistair did not blend well with the other children. He wasn’t excited by ball games or bits of rope with handles on either end. He was far more interested in the written word and in deducing what people meant by their words. He did not realise that they were all still so innocent and nothing that ever could be said by people his age could be malicious - they were all just simply meant to be friends. However, that wasn’t to say the elder students weren’t incapable of being cruel and ruthless. He got the attention of a group of school bullies that were notorious for giving the other students a hard time but were never punished for their crimes because the leader’s father was a great donator to the school. For weeks they tormented him, scrawling across his books, stealing things from other students and planting them on him. Alistair did not lash out; he merely retained his serene disposition. They wanted a rise out of him, though; they wanted him to fight back. And eventually, he had no choice but to do so.

    Things came to a head much quicker than was to be expected, however.

    It was a brisk, February morning and Alistair left the house having had a brief discussion with Hyperion pertaining to his maths homework. The conversation had turned to something a lot darker than mental arithmetic that morning and Alistair was quick to pledge that he would do his part for the Death Eaters when the time came. Hyperion covered the younger boy’s mouth at his admission, terrified of what Asteria would say if she overheard. Hyperion made his own promise though as he wound the emerald and silver scarf around the boy’s neck - he swore he’d protect him through his every endeavour. Hyperion loved the boy and Alistair worshiped the very ground the elder man walked upon. He idolised the Death Eater and grasped the time they had together by throwing his arms around Hyperion’s middle. The elder man, though shocked, did not miss a beat and wrapped his arms around Alistair after a millisecond of hesitation.

    The beauty of the moment was broken by the rap on the door and Hyperion let Alistair go. The girl at the door was the only friend Alistair had made. They had stumbled across each other in Diagon Alley and had recognised each other immediately upon sight of one another. Then after that, they caught the bus together to school. This morning though, something very different was on the cards. Alistair had not been feeling particularly healthy, the post-Christmas flu beginning to get to him, and though Hyperion had suggested he stay home, the boy was determined to see out the day. He had a feeling. He didn’t know what that feeling meant but it was something, something important - he was sure of it.

    And important it was; life changingly so.

    The elder boys that had plagued him over those weeks happened upon the two school children and jumped upon the chance for torment. However what started off as what they considered to be harmless fun turned violent when one of the boys managed to strike the girl when Alistair ducked under one of their blows. The force of it sent her tumbling to the ground and Alistair watch, wide-eyed as she brought her hand to her head. She brought her hand away after a few moments and gasped at the sight of thick scarlet liquid on her fingers. At the sight of the blood, a mist of the same colour fell over Alistair’s eyes and he lost all sense of right and wrong. He’d never really cared for right and wrong and had paid morals no mind in the past. What he loathed the most though was to be offended, a trait that he picked up from Hyperion during one of the business ventures in the living room when one of the men had made a snide comment regarding Asteria.

    Instead of lashing out personally though, Alistair’s magic did it for him. It exploded from within him, throwing the boys back from where they had been standing. The light was blinding and the sound of an explosion followed it. When Alistair reopened his eyes, nothing remained bar the shoes the boys had been stood in. They were simply gone. The torment, though brief, was a great strain on Alistair, doing the opposite of what Asteria wanted his time at the school to do. The Muggle police force wasn’t far away at all and as the sirens blared ever louder, Alistair pulled his friend up to her feet and ran through the winding back alleys back to the house, just as Hyperion was leaving. The boy bundled them all back inside and locked the door, his chest heaving and his breathing laboured. He was vague in his explanation of what happened but nothing Hyperion could say would reassure him because they all knew what would happen next.

    They were all braced for the knock on the door.

    EIGHT TO TEN: Grandmother visits. Hearings take place.

    The visit from the Ministry was inevitable. The trace was firmly attached to Alistair and there was nothing a Death Eater (as one of the Aurors had spat at Hyperion) could say to prevent them from hauling the eight year old up to the Ministry for an impromptu hearing. The hearing was not singular, much to the dismay of all of them. The hearings sometimes took months at a time to complete and to accommodate the Ministry, Alistair was pulled from the school. Asteria never said much throughout the court process. She never said much at all to Alistair during those months and years in which Hyperion attempted to talk Wizengamot members out of Obliviating Alistair, binding his magic and allowing a Muggle family to adopt him. They were convinced Hyperion had polluted the boy in some way and their assumptions were not wrong though it had not been intentional on Hyperion’s part.

    Throughout the first few months after the incident that took place at the bus stop that snowy morning, Alistair said very little in the way of defence of himself. He said about as much as Asteria did to him, leaving Hyperion to do all of the talking unless a question was fired directly at him. Demeter and Hestia were as quick to come to his defence as Hyperion had been and soon enough word spread, never quite reaching the newspapers but the notoriety was there. People knew that the Ministry was trying in vain to dispose of a boy that had merely used magic in defence of himself and his friend who had supported his written account of what had happened that day.

    Alistair retreated into himself during those court sessions. He listened very little to what the Wizengamot members had to say and he tried as much as possible to carry on as normal. People seemed to know though, making it damn near impossible for him to relax in Diagon Alley. So instead what he did was retreat into the shadow of Knockturn Alley and stride down the windy streets until it opened out into the square where men and women of all ages set up stalls to sell their wares. It was at one of these stalls that Alistair got his first job. It was a potions stall where a young man and woman - siblings by the looks - were selling trial potions that did things they shouldn’t have been able to do - did things no one in the world thought they could do. It was for this reason that no one seemed to pause at that stall. Somehow though, they still managed to make a living and so Alistair turned a fair profit also. In Knockturn, they thought very little of him one way or another. In Diagon, all the people could do was gossip.

    It was May after his ninth birthday when his name was cleared of any wrongdoing and the Ministry decided that he was just a boy looking to protect himself after all. It also helped that the group of elder boys had been found. They weren’t entirely in one piece and they certainly couldn’t remember much pertaining to that day but they were alive and that was what mattered as far as the Ministry were concerned. That was what enabled the clearing of Alistair’s name and the Ministry didn’t let him forget it either. They sent him packing, paid the lawyers and allowed him to return to some sense of normality. And with the clearing of his name, people seemed to forget about who he was. Diagon Alley was no longer filled with whispers of his name. Not even an echo could be heard of him. Still, Alistair retreated to Knockturn Alley, finding more solace in the shadow than in the eye scalding brightness of the ‘light’ side of Wizarding London.

    His tenth birthday was to be another disaster as someone walked into his life, someone who he’d never ever imagined seeing. Alistair had not thought of his mother for years and it certainly hadn’t occurred to him that he might have a set of grandparents that were vaguely interested in his whereabouts. Alistair had always retained his name. He was a D’Eath, born and bred. Asteria had not raised him quite as such but he had a sense of pride and his father’s ego to boot. He had been known to London as Alistair D’Eath, the boy that blew the bullies away; and more specifically, he was known to his grandparents that way. And so on his birthday, at roughly seven o’clock, there was a rap on the door and Hyperion, half-grumbling, rose to his feet to answer the door. What he’d been expecting was some silly witch offering him a potion of sorts. He had definitely not been expecting Hemera Castillo on his doorstep, and certainly not at what would be considered by a conservative Pureblood such as herself to be an ungodly hour.

    Hemera: “Well, Hyperion, are you going to let me in or just stand there gawping at me all night? Have you seen the time?”
    Hyperion: “Well I don’t know, Hemera. You’re not quite the looker I remember you to be. I can recall being desperate to prise your legs open as a teenager. I now remember why I picked your daughter instead!”
    Hemera: “You foul-”
    Hyperion: “-Ah, ah, ah! Don’t test me Hemera. I’m not adverse to letting cougars bed me or I myself taking cougars. Now, what is it you want?”
    Hemera: “I want to see my grandson!”
    Hyperion: “You don’t mean Alistair do you? Hold on. Does that mean I -”
    Hemera: “Took his mother in that crude manner you describe? Yes. Now, let me in, Hyperion!”

    The first appearance of his grandmother consisted of her informing him - or, as it seemed to him, boasting to him - about his mother. Hyperion was quick to chuck Hemera out, especially after their altercation on the doorstep and Alistair demanded that Hyperion explain - or, well, explain as best as he could. In the end it was Asteria that ended up explaining exactly what occurred with his mother when he was a baby. She told him of the words that were exchanged and explained that his mother wanted the best for him - or, as Asteria believed, him out of the way of the perfect little life she and Peter were forging for themselves. It was at this point that Alistair began to get very, very cold where his mother was concerned and he began to loathe his step-father, a man he couldn’t even remember knowing. One person in the story did give him some hope though - his father, a man he hoped to either never encounter or encounter with the elder man wishing to father him properly.


    The summer before his first year was marred by personal tragedy. In the weeks before the start of the term, Hyperion became increasingly weary and testy with everything and everyone. Asteria had taken to ignoring him all together but Alistair would still crawl into the elder man’s bed and implore with him to talk as he had done in the past. Every time, though, Hyperion declined and Alistair would often slip out from under the covers and pad dejectedly back to his bedroom where he would sleep fitfully until morning. It was on the very day of his letter arriving, accepting him at Hogwarts, that the Aurors arrived. They wasted no time in bundling Hyperion out of the house and there was not a single word that could be said by either Alistair or Asteria. The Aurors read Hyperion what few rights he had and carted him back off - back off to hell, one of them said, while the other mentioned Azkaban, Azkaban prison.

    It was then that the final puzzle piece clicked into place and Alistair had grappled with the tags he’d put around his neck so many years ago. The numbers was a way of cataloguing. The runes were a second way. Hyperion had not been on holiday. No, he’d been in prison, and Alistair was sure it had something to do with what was emblazoned on his arm.

    It was not a week later that Hemera appeared on the doorstep, a slightly shorter woman not unlike her in appearance by her side. Alistair had never really been one to say much but the absence of Hyperion had left him feeling colder than ever. His first friend, his only friend and confident, torn from him like he’d never been there in the first place. Near ten years of being left alone then he was ripped away and put back in Azkaban. When Hemera introduced her companion as Alistair’s mother, he was not nearly as overjoyed as he should have been. Instead, he slammed the door in their faces. Insult to injury, it was, and the explosion of the hall table vase not a moment later told the women still lingering in the porch that it was probably best they take their leave. Hemera and Melancholia didn’t attempt to see the boy again. The latter did not feel the surge of maternal instinct she had done upon setting eyes on the children she’d had with Peter. She merely felt indifferent towards him, as if he wasn’t her son at all.

    Asteria took Alistair to the various shops his shopping list had indicated would be good places to find his school equipment. His wand, beautiful and polished, was purchased at Ollivander’s having gone through at least a shelf of wands that were no good to him. Thirteen inches with a duel core of Doxy Wings and a Kelpie hair core, the wand was made of Yew and wasn’t nearly as flexible as the wand maker recalled Asteria’s to be. The choice of wand was commended and Alistair took his leave, using the last few weeks he had left to prepare for the school year ahead. When the time came, he was extremely hesitant to leave. Asteria had fallen ill in the days leading up to him going to school and yet she still insisted on accompanying him to King’s Cross - though she said she daren’t go through the barrier for fear of it leaving her dizzy.

    That was to the last Alistair would see of the woman who had raised him. Perhaps he should have noticed how tired and how broken she looked. Perhaps he had but it certainly didn’t show it. He merely kissed her on the cheek, told him he’d be home for the summer and pushed through the barrier onto Platform 9¾.

    Perhaps the most memorable part of the whole year was the Sorting Ceremony - as with all First Years. Alistair’s name was called fairly near the beginning of the ceremony and he glided easily, feeling at home in the robes, through the cloud of students. He ascended the steps and plopped himself down on the stool without a second thought as to whether he should be worried or not. The hat was placed on his head and it barely had time to slip over his eyes when it exclaimed that Slytherin was to be the house of the eldest D’Eath son. Alistair can even now remember the roar of the students of Slytherin as they broke into applause and he hopped down the steps, a wild grin on his face, and ran over to the table where he was yanked down into a seat between the two Beaters of the house team -- and it was they who introduced him to Quidditch.

    SECOND YEAR: Betrothal + Meets Lorcan.

    The summer of his first year was the bench mark for his second year. He never went home to Asteria that summer. Instead he was greeted by a man who was accompanied by two children clutching to his legs, both wide eyed and curious as to whom their father was talking to. When the man introduced himself as Lorcan D’Eath, that hope from so very long ago sprang up from within Alistair. Lorcan glossed over the supposedly ‘unimportant’ details of why he was there to pick him up, merely stating that it was high time he get to know his son, his eldest son. Alistair grasped the opportunity with both hands and agreed without a second thought to the matter. He wanted to be a part of his father’s life. He didn’t want to be a part of his mother’s when it suited her purpose. No, he had plans for her, plans to make her see. He was bias where his father was concerned, bias because he believed Lorcan would have wanted him had he known about him when he was a baby.

    Alistair wasn’t necessarily wrong but he wasn’t right either. There was really no telling what choices Lorcan would have made had he known about his son. It was unlikely he would have raised him as Alistair hoped he would have done.

    The summer was spent at the D’Eath residence though Alistair couldn’t deny he felt grossly out of place in the house. He spent his time trying to connect to home as much as possible. He could always be found nursing a cup of tea, reading any scrap of information about Hyperion or anything about Azkaban. Alistair became even more withdrawn in those weeks, letting himself fall into learning instead of doing what normal eleven year olds should have been doing - which was going to see friends or writing faux love letters to girls and never sending them. Instead he read and read, occasionally stopping during the day for either a bite to eat or if one of his half-sisters began to bother him. He didn’t treat them poorly but he didn’t treat them with much respect, either. The idea that his father would have wanted to love him had he known had quickly disappeared because the neglect of his mother was much the same with that of his father, the only difference being there was a dopey blonde woman there to make sure they didn’t die. The House Elves were much more obliging, they screamed less.

    It was in the last week that Lorcan returned home with a girl a year or so younger than Alistair in tow. Even then, Alistair was privy to his father’s womanising ways and so he made a quick quip upon his father entering the living room, one that did not shed Lorcan in the best of lights. At that point, Alistair did not care. He cared very little for his father and was showing very clearly his distaste for the man. Lorcan was happily oblivious though, much to Alistair’s amusement, and informed him that the girl that barely made it up to his father’s elbow was to be his betrothed.

    Emmaline Parkinson was a short, slightly pudgy girl with eyes too big for her face, hair too long for her body and fingers tinier than that of his sister’s. Yet, for some reason, through all of the flaws in her appearance, Alistair felt himself grow to like her and on September 1st he was accompanying her with her trolley and her own through the barrier onto Platform 9¾ where he would begin his second year and she her first. Betrothal was not something he understood the point of at that point but he was beginning to see the point of girls. After Christmas, he got his first girlfriend who he held hands with and occasionally kissed on the cheek. To do anything else was a horrifying prospect despite the two Slytherin Beaters encouraging him to do odd things with his tongue to a place on a girl he’d never even heard of before. The girls warned the boys not to pollute his mind but Alistair was polluted enough without having the “wonders of the female body” explained to him.

    Thankfully, he wasn’t quite ready for that. He had a few more years yet until he decided to find out exactly what went on “between the thighs” as the boys had said. At that point, Alistair just didn’t want to know.


    The holidays before his third year were met with both tragedy and joy. Hyperion’s release was blown across the newspapers, the Ministry deeming to have no proof what so ever to re-imprison him. Hyperion was there on the platform waiting for Alistair when he got off of the train and the younger boy threw himself into the arms of the fatigue-ridden elder man. The moment they shared was a tender one, one that was broken up far too soon, before Hyperion could even think about pressing the kisses to Alistair’s face he so desperately wanted to. The boy had given him so much hope when he was a child. The thirteen year old that had thrown himself against him much in the same way he had when he was three reignited that flame that had flickered so gently over the years.

    However much Alistair wanted to go back to Hyperion and Asteria though, he couldn’t. Lorcan was, predictably, the one to break up the moment and he was dragged back off to the D’Eath manor where he was once again left alone for most of the holidays while his father chased the robe tails of every woman with a pulse.

    The joy was seeing Hyperion again; the tragedy was the death of the woman that had raised him. Asteria’s health had declined rapidly and she had her last breath two weeks before Alistair was due back to school. The boy attended the funeral but did not exchange much conversation with Hyperion. He wasn’t quite ready for it and neither was the elder man. Asteria had kept things together with all of them - with him, with Hyperion, with Hestia and with Demeter. To think that she was gone...it was unfathomable.

    The rest of the summer was spent with Emmaline. Alistair had let girl the girlfriend he’d merely held hands with and had focused on learning as much about girls towards the end of the school year as possible. He’d come to the conclusion that not only were they sexy but they were insufferable too and it didn’t matter how many times he and the Beaters disillusioned themselves and snuck into the girl’s changing rooms, Alistair could neither figure them out nor get enough of them. He’d come on leaps and bounds from the boy who had held hands with the plucky blonde in his second year. No, he was figuring girls out just fine and with him being on the brink of puberty, things were changing and they were changing fast. He’d learned how to manipulate the males of Slytherin but he had yet to get to the females and he had a feeling he knew just how.

    It was just a shame Emmaline was as jealous as she was.

    Third year was entitled ‘A Study of the Female Race’. In short, Alistair became a cocky little sod that had acquired friends with much the same intentions as he did. He was slapped, kicked, kneed in places he’d rather not remember about and was abused all around during that year. He decided it was all worth it though because not only had he found out enough about females to go off of, he also decided he wanted very little to do with them - and that was an angle that worked for him as he finally began to grow and become a man instead of a boy with a slightly too high voice. He shot up during that year, the voice broke and hair grew everywhere, bugging Alistair to no end. By the end of the year, the Beaters were showing him how to slice off the dark hair on his jaw without completely killing himself. Of course, that was also the year he found out what his Boggart was - his first Boggart.

Last edited by Alistair D'Eath on Sun Jan 08, 2012 2:12 pm; edited 1 time in total
Theodore Rookwood
Theodore Rookwood
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D'EATH, Alistair Bartimus Empty Re: D'EATH, Alistair Bartimus

Post by Theodore Rookwood Sun Oct 02, 2011 3:09 am


    The fourteen year old that stepped off of the train had made a mental pact with himself no to screw up this summer. He didn’t know what he’d done the summer prior that qualified as screwing up but he knew something had gone wrong and he was determined to fix it. He was determined to fix his self and Hyperion. Alistair skipped out on Lorcan, deciding it wasn’t at all worth it to stick around only to be alone with his insufferable siblings all summer, and instead travelled into London, to the Leaky Cauldron where he tapped the bricks and entered Diagon Alley. He wasted no time in going back to the house he knew Hyperion would still be living in. He let himself in - or rather, broke in - and dumped his bags in the hallway before tentatively padding across the carpet to the door of the living room where he found Hyperion asleep on the couch. And upon waking him, Alistair was yanked into a tight, almost suffocating embrace.

    Alistair: “I take it you missed me then, eh?”
    Hyperion: “Of course I did you silly prat! Merlin...look at you. This is the part where I say you look like someone isn’t it? And what’s this on your chin, lad?”
    Alistair: “I missed you too but don’t you dare breathe a word of that to anyone. I don’t look like anyone, Hyp, and you know it. This? This is a beard. Like it?”
    Hyperion: “Haha, it’s fantastic, kid. Not with your dad this summer then?”
    Alistair: “I’m not sitting there for another summer. I’m sick of those kids.”
    Hyperion: “Your half-siblings? Ah well. They’re not important are they? Not really. Chin up kid. Now, go make me a cuppa. I’m dying o’ thirst here.”

    It was over the course of that summer that he really began to grow up. He’d always looked older than his years, even when he was very young and he was really beginning to match up to Hyperion by this point. He had a voice that one of the girls at the sweet shop liked to refer to as melted chocolate - though admittedly, she was a self-confessed chocoholic. Somehow, Emmaline stumbled back across him and caught him during one of his shifts at Flourish and Blott’s where he’d gotten a job during the summer. He’d been pouring over books since early that morning and the girl’s distraction was more than welcome because it seemed as if she too was becoming something pretty to look at in her own right. Alistair had been pining after her sister for a few months, but so had every other red-blooded male; however what he saw was something quite different in Emmaline. The pierced ears, the curled hair and the plunging neckline of her dress did little to move him from where he was sat though.

    Those weeks were spent wisely as he began to develop what Emmaline called an unhealthy interest in the Dark Arts. What he earned went to books pertaining to the subject. Little she could do, could distract him, however pretty she made herself. It was however during this month that another girl caught his attention, one that shared his interest in the Dark Arts and one that could fund it much better than himself or Hyperion could. Evelyn was a member of one of the eldest Pureblood families and held a certain desire to prove herself but she also took a shine to Alistair. Just as he was a year older than Emmaline, Evelyn was a year older than him but that did not stop him from observing her in a similar way he did to most women he found attractive. Alistair still had yet to find his footing with girls, finding that it was much easier to bend blokes around his finger because he didn’t have to make them like him, more give them what they wanted.

    However, what Alistair realised was that he could do the same with Evelyn and so throughout the summer he courted her, knowing that all she wanted was his attention, his undivided attention. And so he gave it to her. She bent over backwards for his every touch, and poured her father’s money down the drain for every brush of his lips against her skin. Inexperienced though he was, Alistair was a fast learner and he was quickly understanding what Evelyn wanted and what she didn’t want. Primarily she wanted him but he needed to understand the way in which she wanted him - said way becoming apparent one night after the pair had spent the day in Knockturn Alley.

    Hyperion had been working diligently on a task that the Dark Lord had given him and a handful of other Death Eaters when the front door as thrown open. The force of it startled Hyperion from his seat and he whipped his wand out, treading hesitantly across the carpet to look out into the hall. He blinked as a blur of tangled limbs and clothes whirled past him and he frowned at the site of various different clothing items that left a breadcrumb trail from the door up to what Hyperion was assuming would be Alistair’s room. The elder man was far from impressed, having hoped he could spend time bouncing ideas off of the younger man that evening, and though he was proud of the lad for finally managing to pull, he didn’t hang around. Hyperion spent the rest of the evening down the pub until he too found his bed partner for the night and when the men encountered each other that morning, they exchanged matching smirks - both acknowledging a job well done.

    Thankfully, his fourth year was quiet, his only gripe being Emmaline’s frosty persona when they returned to school.


    His fifth year was perhaps the most exciting yet because it was during that year that he was once again pushed back into his mother’s life in the form of Peter Launceleyn ex-wife Patricia. The fifteen year old come sixteen year old soon enough was immensely irritated with the woman upon first meeting her. When she introduced herself though, his interest was immediately piqued. It was through her that Alistair fully began to understand his mother and her husband. He learned about the children they then went onto have and found that his own frustrations were mirrored by Patricia. The pair grew close over a series of Hogsmeade trips, linked together by their duel plans of revenge to truly spite the couple, Alistair wishing to for his mother’s neglect and Patricia yearning to do so to truly get back at Peter for leaving her as he had.

    The plotting went on for most of the year and whether Alistair realised it or not, he fell deeper and deeper into the Dark Arts. He fell once again subject to the wiles of a woman enamoured with the Dark Arts as’ much as he and he foolishly fell into bed with the woman that was easily his age twice over; neither seemed to mind though because the pair got much more from the arrangement than previously thought. Alistair continued to work out how to get back at his mother and he realised with glee that the only way to truly make her suffer was to hit her right where it hurt, before he got to the jugular.

    Busy as he was with his dark leanings, Alistair completely forgot about his O.W.L studies and so he when he was slapped with the tests, he expected to fail. Instead though, he came through, much to the joy of his father who met him on the platform again and to the amazement of Hyperion who had been privy to much of what had been going on that year. Yes, it was a surprise indeed when the boy passed the majority of his classes -- and by doing very little at all.

    His fifth year brought out his obsessive streak. He fell in love with the idea of murder and the idea of it both plagued and excited him. He paid little attention to the woman that vied for his attention. He paid little attention to anything bar the task at hand. To anyone that knew him, he was a man possessed and preoccupied - something that Patricia called him out on more often than not. The stress of the anticipation began to wear down on Alistair though and her insistence that he pay attention to her began to bring out more and more of the less than agreeable traits in the sixteen year old. Under the crazed eye of Patricia he became temperamental and unpredictable, shocking her with every move he made. To her, he may well have been her angel. Angel indeed, right up until the night he lashed out on her.

    Alistair had been taught better, admittedly, but Patricia knew how to press his buttons and that night he’d had enough of her complaining. He’d risen from where he’d been working at the desk that was pushed up underneath one of the windows in the room she rented and he pulled her against him, his grasp of her bruising. His whispered words were crude and far more threatening than she had ever heard from him. Argued though they’d had, he’d never promised the treatment he did in those moments. As he grabbed at her clothes, his grip keeping her fixed to him but his wandering, harsh fingers making his intentions clear, she panicked and understandably so. She lashed out before he did and her hand connected with his cheek. He reeled from the treatment, giving her a few precious seconds to escape the room before he rushed after her.

    Alistair caught Patricia at the top of the staircase. His hands curled around her wrist and he threw her forward, his grasp tight on her wrist, his intention not to drop her, not yet anyway. He pulled her back to him, his hands coming up to grip her upper arms, and he thrust her against the wall of the inn. His shouts were muffled by the blood pulsing through her ears. The defiance in her gaze was the last nail in the coffin. The red mist clouded his judgment and his gaze and he swung his hand back, curling his fingers into his palm as he struck her. The force of the blow sent her tumbling down the stairs, her head hitting near enough every stair.

    Aware of what he’d done, aware of what he’d started, Alistair turned and stalked back into the room where he gathered up his things, cleansed the room of his fingers prints and departed with the written plans of revenge - though not before healing some of the superficial wounds that Patricia had retained, the ones he’d caused. He’d picked up a little bit of healing magic from the matron after a particularly bloody Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match and it was enough to mask the foul play. Alistair left the Three Broomsticks a changed man, a darker, far more violent man.

    That night he returned to the castle weary and anxious. When he reached his bed he found the last person he would have thought to see laying there asleep: Emmaline. Instead of waking her, Alistair merely stripped down to his boxers and crawled in behind her, tossing a protective arm around her waist; which seems truly ridiculous considering the events of the hour prior. Yet he still did it, he still gave Emmaline that reassuring embrace. There was a difference between her and Patricia - a crucial one. He actually liked Emmaline. Patricia? Well, she was only good for one thing wasn’t she?


    D'EATH, Alistair Bartimus Alista10


    Emmaline was sweet enough, caring enough, but she could never know. News of Patricia’s death was included in the Prophet and Alistair was ridiculously glad he had never let slip where he wandered off to, and gladder still that no one ever caught them. He was not a suspect. The Aurors decided it was simply a fall. She sustained head injuries and even managed to break her neck, something Alistair couldn’t help but chuckle at over the rim of his tea the morning of their departure back to King’s Cross. The Slytherins looked at him as if he had three heads and Emmaline had leaned over to have a look at what was funny, only to frown and inquire as to why that of all things made him laugh. Alistair rarely laughed and he certainly had never done so in her company before. Patricia had always made him laugh though, even more so in death. Her death truly had been comical. It was ridiculous to think what he’d been doing with her for the majority of the year. Still, Alistair wasn’t going to complain. She’d suited her purpose, she’d simply forgotten her place.

    He’d made her a promise though, one he was determined to keep. He’d uphold his end of the bargain, even if he’d killed her. That was merely an inconvenience. Plus, she’d deserved it.

    The summer of his sixth year was by far the most important for it was the year that Hyperion finally gave in and took him to the Dark Lord who at the time was at the very height of his power. Alistair made an impression on the Head Death Eater, so much so that he was offered the Mark. Hyperion was to suffer in his attempts to convince his Lord to reconsider his offer and was braced under the weight of the Cruciatus as Alistair remained stoic and poised beside his writhing body. The younger man allowed his mind to be danced around by the eager Dark Lord. He allowed the man to see into him, to see into his very soul. Alistair was bold and unflinching under the scarlet gaze of the Wizard and he slowly rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to bare his arm to the man, as if daring him to do it instead of imploring with him to do so.

    Alistair was perhaps stupider than he was brave yet the Dark Lord seemed to appreciate it. He marked the boy a Death Eater and his fate was set, the ball once again was rolling towards the dangerous future he was nearing. Alistair’s mind was continually occupied after that, occupied by both his own self-assigned mission and those that the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters took part in. Hyperion wrote to him openly, knowing that there was no fear of the Order finding out; Voldemort’s influence having stretched as far as it could go. It was, however, during this mental occupation that Alistair grew more and more affectionate towards Emmaline. Here presence soothed him. Somehow she knew when and when not to speak. She knew that his desire for her did not extend the way it did for other girls. He wanted her to be something other than a quick shag. He didn’t want to break her chastity the way he did the other girls. Having said that though, he did very little with anyone else. For that year, she was his favourite.

    There was very little Emmaline could do to make Alistair love her though. He would return her kisses half-heartedly; he’d lazily glide his hands up and down the length of her body, allowing them to wander to places where she was urging him to go with her responses. He was mechanical in the way he treated her, his mind a million miles away. He barely had time to eat and sleep let alone deal with her and for some ridiculous reason the teachers seemed to want them all to study. Alistair was allowing the stress to mount again and there was very little he could do to combat it. He was basking in the thought of getting his hands on his mother, on his step-father and the perfect little children they’d created. The obsession he had with that stretched through his sixth year and through the summer until he finally took the initiative over Christmas and sought them out, dropping down the chimney with the intention of bringing no one but himself the joy he felt he deserved to feel.

    It is safe to say that Alistair is no Santa Claus.


    It was another case of walking in and walking out again except this time he didn’t turn it into an accident. He decimated them, leaving nothing behind. He took the children first, then Peter and saved his mother for last. He didn’t stop until every last person in the house was dead, from them to the House Elves to the animals that squealed and chattered amongst themselves. Again, Alistair was overtaken by the haze of the mist and again he left destruction in his wake. The newspapers jumped on it just like last time and this time, everyone knew it was murder. They also connected that it had to have been someone that also knew Patricia as there was no way that death and then the murder of the family wasn’t connected. Alistair slipped back into Hogwarts as if never happened and for a month or so he was relaxed -- or at least, as relaxed as he could be.

    If it was at all possible, Alistair became more withdrawn than ever. He was impossible, broody and unresponsive until the day he rose from where he’d been lying with Emmaline and began to pack up his things. He knew something was wrong, something had to be, and so he popped a kiss on her forehead, shrunk and pocketed his trunk and made a break for the castle grounds. As soon as he was over the threshold, he Apparated. Where, he didn’t know, but it was somewhere. Then it was somewhere else and somewhere else and somewhere else until eventually he ended up outside his home. He broke in once more, reminiscent of his fourth year, and trudged up the stairs where he fell into bed beside a slumbering Hyperion, so exhausted that he even forgot to take off his shoes.

    After that, Alistair did not return to Hogwarts. No, instead he got his diploma by other means and he then thrust himself into Death Eater life, having put the five deaths - the five murders - behind him, sort of. He put it to the back of his mind but no further than there. It wasn’t something he could let go. It wasn’t something he could allow himself to let go. Patricia, sure, because she didn’t matter, but his mother did, however small that matter was. He did care, did being past tense instead of an affirmation of the truth. He realised it too late. Yet he still didn’t regret their deaths. Not in the slightest.


    He keeps it quite close to the chest how he got to Azkaban and much that has been plucked from diaries and memoirs written by him has been put into this biography of his life. However, Alistair never kept a record of what happened post his leave from Hogwarts. All we know is the date he went to Azkaban - June 1st 2020, having been caught two months before. There was a trial, one heavily publicised by the Daily Prophet and Alistair was given a life sentence. We can only assume what happened in the lead up to his capture. He was a terrific Death Eater if his past discrepancies are anything to go by. However there are two points of interest that biographers have looked at, two events that took place in the lead up to his imprisonment.

    The first, being the death of Emmaline D’Eath née Parkinson - though we cannot be sure when they reunited or when they married. The grave marker also wishes a safe passage into the afterlife for the unborn child titled ‘D’EATH’ that Emmaline was pregnant with at the time of her death. Said death was said to be caused by Aurors on a raid of the residence the couple shared but the allegations of which have been denied by the Ministry over the years.

    The second was the death of Hyperion Rhodin. And that in itself is self explanatory for he has featured heavily in this story.

    The interesting part about it all is that Alistair’s story hasn’t finished yet. In fact, it’s barely begun. Aged twenty-four, battle weary and as malicious as ever, the young man has nothing to lose and everything to gain. Everything worth having he already lost and after having walked out of Azkaban - as are the rumours - he has everything to play for. The newspapers and his biographers are poised because he was one of the most talented young individuals that the Death Eaters gained pre-Hogwarts graduation. It didn’t matter that Alistair didn’t possess N.E.W.Ts. The lad had talent and he still does. It takes a lot more than just Azkaban to knock the stuffing out of him.

    After all, it’s only a holiday resort, isn’t it?


    YOUR NAME: Amy





Last edited by Alistair D'Eath on Tue Aug 21, 2012 4:24 pm; edited 1 time in total
Theodore Rookwood
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D'EATH, Alistair Bartimus Empty Re: D'EATH, Alistair Bartimus

Post by Khaat Lupin Sun Oct 02, 2011 8:38 pm

I really liked reading this app a lot. He is, unusually, starting as a very well developed character.

Accepted and sorted into grads.
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