Gifts Best Left Unopened
The first doll arrived on Friday.
Wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, the package had no return name—only a small, off-white card in immaculate handwriting:
The doll inside was small, simple with a red wizard hat and matching cloak. The rough, burlap-like cloth was stitched crudely but it seemed to only lend the dangerous thing a strange charm. With button eyes and no mouth, at least it would not be able to complain, Aamon thought to himself.
Not this time, he threw it into the fireplace. It reappeared on his bed the next morning.
On Saturday, a second arrived.
This one was more tattered, but seemed to still represent power. A top hat and matching cloak, this time in purple. Leather string stitched Steven together. Oversized green buttons for eyes. In its hand, a cane with a glittering skull on the end. There was a slight tear, the doll's 'guts' were made of purple string.
Aamon didn’t burn it. He didn’t scream. It was useless to do so, his roomate already considered him 'too dramatic' and carrying on over some ragged doll would simply feed into the narrative.
The Slytherin simply sat down at his desk, pen in hand, and began cataloging the pattern.
He remembered the stories. From his father’s library. From the hushed conversations between servants. The things he had learned from Orion and from his own quieter studies in the library. Dolls like these weren’t toys. They were sentient placeholders—familiars of old magic, often used for tracking, cursing, torment. But most chillingly, he believed that these things were bonded to a target by the act of giving.
To accept the doll was to invite its maker in. But to gift the doll… was to redirect the gaze.
The third came on Sunday.
This one wore a smile, unlike the others that had no mouth. Its lips were parted in a too-wide smile, as if the larger of the duo was humored. Yes, duo. This was the first time he had received a doll that came as a pair - mother and child he surmised. Made from a similar, almost ashy burlap and the same purple thread. Big teal-blue eyes this time. She was wearing a dress.
Aamon didn’t sleep that night, he just stared. And thought.
By Monday morning, when the final doll appeared, dressed in only patches reminiscent of the burlap of the previous three and wearing a mask. Two glittering skulls, one in each hand. This one made him think of a witch doctor, but the unusual progression is not what stirred him but rather the familiar menace these now four dolls brought with them. He was certain they moved on their own, that they were talking, plotting most certainly.
Aamon had already made up his mind: he wouldn’t be a victim again. Not like he was at home. Not like he was when @Finnegan Connor brought cornered him to the ground, burdened by whatever hate Connor had for him and his family. Not when @Matthew Campbell tainted his bedding, tricked him for purposes beyond his understanding and muttered things behind his back. Not when his own brothers, Gideon and Mathias treated him like collateral. He didn’t need to carry this curse. Not when there were people who deserved it more.
That morning, Aamon walked calmly to the owlry, four brown-papered packages in his arms, tied with ribbon and sealed with delicate cards that simply read:
With affection, from a secret admirer.
One was for Finnegan.
One for Matthew.
One for Gideon.
And one—yes, even one—for Mathias.
No, scratch his two brothers. @Winnie Harper and @Taylor Athanatos were by far better choices.
Aamon's hands would never touch the dolls again. He would let the owls carry the curse forward. He kept his smile warm, his conscience lighter than it should’ve been. They wouldn’t know and he would never tell them.
And when they woke to the sound of porcelain footsteps tapping on their floors,
Aamon Athanatos would finally sleep soundly.
Feel free if you are a recipient to open your 'gift' in this thread or another.
Wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, the package had no return name—only a small, off-white card in immaculate handwriting:
No name. Of course not, he wondered if this was the same Sister Mary that had sent him the trio of faceless dolls that over time took on his appearance. That seemed intent on taking over his life. Aamon's stomach had churned at the sight of it.You always have a kind word.
The doll inside was small, simple with a red wizard hat and matching cloak. The rough, burlap-like cloth was stitched crudely but it seemed to only lend the dangerous thing a strange charm. With button eyes and no mouth, at least it would not be able to complain, Aamon thought to himself.
Not this time, he threw it into the fireplace. It reappeared on his bed the next morning.
On Saturday, a second arrived.
This one was more tattered, but seemed to still represent power. A top hat and matching cloak, this time in purple. Leather string stitched Steven together. Oversized green buttons for eyes. In its hand, a cane with a glittering skull on the end. There was a slight tear, the doll's 'guts' were made of purple string.
Aamon didn’t burn it. He didn’t scream. It was useless to do so, his roomate already considered him 'too dramatic' and carrying on over some ragged doll would simply feed into the narrative.
The Slytherin simply sat down at his desk, pen in hand, and began cataloging the pattern.
He remembered the stories. From his father’s library. From the hushed conversations between servants. The things he had learned from Orion and from his own quieter studies in the library. Dolls like these weren’t toys. They were sentient placeholders—familiars of old magic, often used for tracking, cursing, torment. But most chillingly, he believed that these things were bonded to a target by the act of giving.
To accept the doll was to invite its maker in. But to gift the doll… was to redirect the gaze.
The third came on Sunday.
This one wore a smile, unlike the others that had no mouth. Its lips were parted in a too-wide smile, as if the larger of the duo was humored. Yes, duo. This was the first time he had received a doll that came as a pair - mother and child he surmised. Made from a similar, almost ashy burlap and the same purple thread. Big teal-blue eyes this time. She was wearing a dress.
Aamon didn’t sleep that night, he just stared. And thought.
By Monday morning, when the final doll appeared, dressed in only patches reminiscent of the burlap of the previous three and wearing a mask. Two glittering skulls, one in each hand. This one made him think of a witch doctor, but the unusual progression is not what stirred him but rather the familiar menace these now four dolls brought with them. He was certain they moved on their own, that they were talking, plotting most certainly.
Aamon had already made up his mind: he wouldn’t be a victim again. Not like he was at home. Not like he was when @Finnegan Connor brought cornered him to the ground, burdened by whatever hate Connor had for him and his family. Not when @Matthew Campbell tainted his bedding, tricked him for purposes beyond his understanding and muttered things behind his back. Not when his own brothers, Gideon and Mathias treated him like collateral. He didn’t need to carry this curse. Not when there were people who deserved it more.
That morning, Aamon walked calmly to the owlry, four brown-papered packages in his arms, tied with ribbon and sealed with delicate cards that simply read:
With affection, from a secret admirer.
One was for Finnegan.
One for Matthew.
One for Gideon.
And one—yes, even one—for Mathias.
No, scratch his two brothers. @Winnie Harper and @Taylor Athanatos were by far better choices.
Aamon's hands would never touch the dolls again. He would let the owls carry the curse forward. He kept his smile warm, his conscience lighter than it should’ve been. They wouldn’t know and he would never tell them.
And when they woke to the sound of porcelain footsteps tapping on their floors,
Aamon Athanatos would finally sleep soundly.
Feel free if you are a recipient to open your 'gift' in this thread or another.
iNPC: Taylor Athanatos
Gifts Best Left Unopened
Date: 1st April 2025Since returning from Beauxbatons things had stilled a little. Matthew dove his head between the parchment of books, reclused himself to the company of ivory keys and melodic tunes and generally avoided human interaction as much as was physically possible. The world was tiresome and complicated and quite frankly Matthew wished to live as little of it as possible, so a relatively uneventful March left him hopeful.
Maybe hopeful was too far, definitely too far, but his insanity spiral towards optimism always seemed to renew itself with time. Certainly the last month had at the very least allowed the rumours of his murderous tendency to die down but he was still no further to his goal. Holly's diary still remained completely destroyed, his father's presence was still thoroughly missed and he was still relatively alone in the world. Or at least so he felt.
Taking a step back from the few allies he had managed to maintain was the opposite cure for a lonely heart but with his internal narrative warring it felt necessary. Matthew was a curse, even when he only intended to do good he managed to screw things up let alone when he didn't. There was just something about him that chaos seemed to latch onto and circle, a predator minding its prey. So he backed off, not for his sake but for theirs. No one else need get hurt by his predilection for suffering.
March also marked a month of narrowly avoiding Gideon. After his conversation with Taylor and the rest of the Beauxbatons event he was unsure how he felt towards the boy. There was no denying that the Athanatos was a danger but at the core of himself Matthew's innards struck out a warning chord for the danger was not the true worry. It was the words that followed her warning, “especially not when it feels good. That’s when you’re already his.” Therein lay the creeping anxiety, for Matthew had felt just that. Being seen and wanted even just for Gideon's own amusement had felt tantalising, intoxicating. The conflict had sat ruining him with every tick of a clock, every stolen glance across the hall, every avoidance tactic. A draw he was actively ignoring, a whim he had to refute.
As another month reared its head Matthew gazed ponderingly into his morning soup watching the reddish orange liquid swirl around his spoon, a ferryman guiding the flow. What would April bring? Another year almost over, another Spring delivered from the cold grasp of winter. The sun was beginning to defy the typically overcast sky and its small rejuvenation on his body filtered tiny flecks of light through his mind and soul restoring him piece by piece. But even with those sparks he could not read the future and to make matter's worse his tormenter could. Matthew was not naive enough to think Gideon had simply let him be, no the waiting was as purposeful as the wounds. The false illusion of freedom, of respite.
So just when he thought he might be spared, that his isolation and avoidance had been successful, fate spun and twisted him up in its sickly web. Despite being a year and a half into his Hogwarts education Matthew had never quite gotten used to the owl delivery system. Descending upon them every morning like a crazed flock dropping parcels and envelopes and whatever other riches the pureblood families of the worlds sent their darling little angels devils. It was the definition of ridiculous but that wasn't the truth behind his negativity towards the tradition. Far more simpler, Matt simply wallowed in the knowledge that each day hundreds of students would hear from any number of relatives or friends and here he sat with nothing. The boy could count the amount of letters he had received on his hands.
It wasn't entirely his fathers faults, for one they were out of the country and while owls were magically efficient he would not force them to suffer transcontinental flight. Not to mention the entire idea of it boggled his dads minds. Sean had gone on an hour lecture on the issues of GDPR that could be breached on these flights as if he was sending Matthew the nuclear codes. Times like that made him smile a little brighter only to turn cold in the face of their absence. Matthew and his fathers lived in different world now and he would forever be reminded of that. Swooping over head only further hypnotising him in the swirled ripples of his soup he would practically jump out of his skin upon the parcel dropping.
With a disastrous splash the parcel decimated the surface of the tomato soup sending a splatter shot of red viscous liquid all over him. Fixing his posture he sighed heavily knowing he was the perfect illustration of Carrie, thankfully a reference most in the Slytherin would be oblivious too. The offence of the proposed attack had completely misconstrued the fact the parcel was for himself, thus ignoring it he drew his wand and with a quick "Scourgify," cleaned himself and the table. Returning his eyeline to his now emptying bowl he watched as the once pristine brown paper grew soggy at the bottom consuming his breakfast.
Curt stares towards anyone who dared laugh out the way he observed the strangely wrapped item. In the ribbon finery a card with his name piqued his interest and upon drawing it read the words, 'With affection, from a secret admirer.' Practically chuckling to himself he muttered under his breath, "Yeah very likely." Peeling back the unsoaked packaging Matthew revealed a strange doll with a sophisticated top hat, magnificent necrotic cane and purple thread intestines. Being on the headliner he knew the level of crazy bound within these walls, but he was quite sure he didn't have one. He just had a shadow, a shadow that liked pain and dressed in fancy clothes. To the snake the boy was a clear sign, Gideon had left him long enough. In essence, April was going to be hell and in the darkest depths of his mind, he wondered why it wasn't dread he felt, but intrigue.
Mentioning @Gideon Athantos
| Nikolai Volka // "Light, light: do not go | I sing you this song and I will sing another as well." // Matthew Campbell |
Gifts Best Left Unopened
‿︵‿୨✿୧‿︵‿
Interacting:
Mentioning: @Mathias Pride | @Aurora Ranvier
Winnie's brow furrowed as she stared down at the doll that had arrived in the mail that morning. With affection, from a secret admirer, the note accompanying it had said. She tried to run through everyone she knew, but she really didn't know who would send her such a unique looking doll. It almost looked handmade with the burlap sack base, loose stitches, and the large button eyes. Her fingers gently traced the large light blue buttons as she tried to think of who might have sent it.
Mathias would never send her something like this, unless it was an April Fool's prank, she would have to ask him later. The joke would be on him, however, as she found the little doll duo to be quite enchanting. It was also possible that her friend and dormmate, Aurora, had gifted the dolls to her. While she hadn't known her to make dolls, her friend was creative enough to create something out of burlap.
"You're both just too darling," Winnie cooed at the dolls, gently fluffing up the little ponytails the larger one was sporting, and fixing her purple dress. She slid the dolls into her leather satchel bag, positioning them so that their heads were poking out of the bag.
│ │ | │ │ | STA: 15 • EVA: 18 • STR: 8 WIS: 11 • ARC: 7 • ACC: 17 | │ │ | • Healing Sage • Muggle Condition • Paragon of Health • • Poison Resistance • Animagus • Wandmaker • Lovely Creature • | │ │ | │ │ |