GOSSIP GIRL (2021-) 1x02, “She’s Having A Maybe”, Dir. Karena Evans

Morcant about Valerian's first fiancée. @xsecretkeepers

GAMON ARTHIT OLLIVANDER ・ 24 ・ HE & HIM ・ FC PAVEL PHOOM  ・ HALFBLOOD ・ ORDER OF THE PHOENIX ・ GRYFFINDOR ALUMNI  ・  RETIRED CHASER FOR FALLMOUTH FALCONS ・ WAND SPECIALIST AT OLLIVANDERS (NIGHT SHIFT) ・ MENACE TO SOCIETY

the warmth of a found family, taking the night shift because you can't sleep anyway, sharing secrets and a bottle of firewhiskey with a friend after a rough night, the red hot feeling of adrenaline when you make the winning goal on a quidditch match, sharing compliments to random people in the streets, a worn out leather jacket with bottoms of muggle bands.

✧ WAND: Aspen, Unicorn tail hair, 10 inches, and rather bendy. ✧ PATRONUS: The seal. The seal patronus is one that shows a playful soul, that seeks excitement in all of it’s ventures. These are not studious individuals, as they are too busy trying to feel as free as they can. They have the ability to light up a room, and they know it, and like to use it to the best of their ability. They are never ones to let their feelings get the best of them, because they are too wrapped up in everything else to care very much about what other people think of them. They would much rather be busy exploring life. ✧ MIRROR OF ERISED: He sees himself backpacking through Asia with someone by his side, he can't see the face, but he knows it's his husband. ✧ BOGGART: His whole family getting captured and tortured by Death Eaters. ✧ FAMILIAR AND OTHER PETS: His familiar is a crow named Bruce Wayne, which also acts in the place of an owl.

BACKGROUND

Gamon Arthit Ollivander was born in Thailand but raised in England almost before he could remember. His parents were a half-blood witch and a squib, and while they didn’t exactly fit into the magical world’s traditional expectations, they made it work. His mother, a fierce duellist, and his father, a professor for a muggle university, were always up for adventure. When Gamon was just four years old, tragedy struck. His parents were killed in an attack by Grindelwald’s followers, but by some twist of fate, he’d been visiting the Ollivanders that day and was spared. His godparents, Garrick and Mathieu, immediately took him in, and that’s when his real family story began.

Growing up in the Ollivander house, chaos was the norm. Garrick and Mathieu, along with their three other adopted kids, welcomed Gamon into the fold like he’d always been there. The whole house was a bit of a mad circus, with everyone bickering, laughing, and getting into trouble together. But through it all, Gamon learned that family wasn’t about blood—it was about loyalty, love, and sticking together no matter how much of a mess you made of things.

At Hogwarts, Gamon’s Gryffindor spirit was obvious from the start. He didn’t care much for schoolwork—he was more of an action guy. Quidditch was his thing. By the time he was 16, he was already getting noticed for his skills on the pitch. He joined the Gryffindor team as a chaser in his second year and, while he had zero interest in becoming team captain, the game was everything to him. The rush of adrenaline when he scored a goal, the thrill of the crowd—it was addicting.

But it wasn’t just the game that caught his attention. Puberty hit, and Gamon found himself feeling a little… distracted. He couldn’t stop looking at the hot, sweaty chasers and beaters on the other teams. It started out as just a pure appreciation for the sport, but soon enough, it dawned on him: he liked the game, but he really liked the sweaty dudes who played it. The realization hit him one evening after a particularly brutal match, when he caught himself staring a little too long at one of the other team’s chasers, his muscles gleaming with sweat as he caught the Quaffle. That was when Gamon realized he was gay. At first, he wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge, but as he navigated the more chaotic parts of his teenage years—mostly spent sneaking into parties, testing the boundaries of what was acceptable, and partying with his friends—he grew more comfortable with who he was.

The parties were a whole other world. Gamon thrived in the high-energy chaos of the Hogwarts social scene. He had no problem sneaking away to whatever hidden corner of the castle or nearby pub the older students were frequenting, always looking for the next high. Whether it was a good laugh or a new romantic interest, it didn’t matter to him. As he got older, he learned to live for those moments of unbridled fun—fueled by adrenaline, firewhiskey, and the thrill of being surrounded by friends who shared the same chaos.

After graduating at 22, Gamon wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with his life. He’d never been big on plans. He had a minor-league Quidditch career first, and after that, the Falmouth Falcons offered him a spot as a starting chaser. He played for a few years, loved every minute of it—the thrill of the game, the roar of the crowd, the camaraderie.

A few months ago, a bad fall during a match ended his career before it had really reached its peak. Gamon collided mid-air with a Holyhead Harpies player, shattering his leg and causing a severe magical concussion. St. Mungo’s worked on him for weeks, using potions and charms to heal the damage, but a lingering magical imbalance in his system left him with poor coordination and off-balance reflexes. No matter how much he healed physically, he couldn’t get back to full strength, and his Quidditch career was over. It was a hard pill to swallow, but the injury forced him to accept that his body had limits he couldn’t ignore.

The accident didn’t slow him down for long, though. He lived for that next adrenaline rush, and once he was sidelined from Quidditch, he found a new thrill: working the night shift at Ollivanders. The late-night wand repairs became a kind of peaceful rhythm, something he could do while the world was asleep, and it gave him time to figure out what he wanted next.

At some point during those late nights, Gamon started getting involved with the Order of the Phoenix. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. He’d always been a bit of an anarchist at heart—questioning authority, fighting against anyone who tried to impose rules on him or others. As the war escalated, he couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. He wanted to fight back. He was a Gryffindor through and through—loyal, brave, and maybe a little reckless. But above all, he knew this was his fight to take on.

Then there was Bruce. Bruce Wayne, Gamon’s crow. He’d found the little bird abandoned and half-starved one winter night. The name came easily. Gamon had always been into muggle comics, and the idea of a vigilante bird, a sidekick to his own chaotic life, just fit. Bruce was a bit of a troublemaker, always flying off with shiny things during his deliveries and adding them to his nest. Gamon didn’t mind; in fact, he thought it was funny. Bruce was, in his own way, a perfect fit for his life: unpredictable, cheeky, and always keeping things interesting.

PERSONALITY

✅ HONEST ・ BRAVE ・ STREET SMART ・ INTUITIVE ・ ATHLETIC ・ INDEPENDENT ・ CONFIDENT ・ LOYAL ・ CARING ・ PLAYFUL

❌ RECKLESS ・ REBELLIOUS ・ IMPATIENT ・ HOT-TEMPERED ・ POSESSIVE ・ CHAOTIC ・ IRREVERENT ・ HAS NO SELF-PRESERVATION

SKILLS & TALENTS

Adventuring: Gamon is always up for a spontaneous journey, whether it’s exploring unknown parts of the wizarding world or taking a risk on something new. His curiosity and desire for the next thrill often lead him into uncharted territory.

Quidditch Expertise: Having been a reliable chaser on the Gryffindor team and in professional Quidditch, Gamon once had top-tier agility, reflexes, and an uncanny ability to predict plays mid-air. Though he’s retired, the injury has left him with lingering issues that affect his balance and coordination. His broom no longer feels like an extension of himself, and his once-sharp instincts on the pitch have been dulled. While he can still hold his own in a casual match, he knows his prime is behind him.

Martial Magic (Dueling): Thanks to his wand's affinity for martial magic and his natural instinct for defense, Gamon excels in duels. His fighting style is reactive—quick to counter any attack with a move that's as unpredictable as his personality.

Wandlore & Crafting: Growing up in the Ollivander family, Gamon learned the art of wandmaking early on. He has a deep understanding of wand woods, cores, and the unique bond each wand shares with its owner. He's also excellent at repairs and maintenance.

Street Smarts: Gamon is quick on his feet, both physically and mentally. He’s great at reading people and situations, making him adept at getting himself out of sticky social or physical situations. He knows how to navigate tricky streets, whether it's in the wizarding world or the muggle one.

Befriending Strangers: Gamon has an easy time making friends because he genuinely cares about people. He wants to connect with others on a real level, whether it’s sharing a laugh, offering a comforting word, or just being there for someone in a moment of need. Gamon is the type who’ll strike up conversations with anyone, whether it’s in Diagon Alley or a seedy pub.

Risk Management (Sort of): Despite his reckless tendencies, Gamon has a surprising ability to assess risk in high-pressure situations. He might not always make the best decision, but he has a unique instinct for recognizing when things are about to go south—usually right before it happens.

Muggle Interests: Growing up with a muggle historian father, Gamon developed an appreciation for muggle history and culture. From comic books to rock ‘n’ roll, he’s got a broad knowledge of muggle life, which helps him relate to muggle-borns and understand the broader world.

Creature of the Night: Gamon has adapted to the nighttime shifts at Ollivanders, becoming incredibly efficient in dim light. His ability to work in the dead of night, without needing much rest, gives him an edge when handling the unpredictable nature of the late-night crowd.

Pranking & Mischief: Gamon’s quick thinking and mischievous sense of humor make him the go-to guy for pulling off elaborate pranks, whether it’s in Hogwarts' halls or a pub after hours. He knows exactly how to make someone laugh or get back at an enemy with a clever trick.

HE SUCKS AT THIS...

Patience for Theoretical Studies: While Gamon excels in practical magic, he struggles with the theoretical side of things. Complex charms, potions, or ancient spells are lost on him if he has to read about them for too long. He prefers hands-on learning and tends to gloss over anything too academic.

Attention to Detail: Gamon’s impulsive nature often causes him to miss the finer details in a plan. Whether it’s rushing through a wand repair or jumping into an Order mission without fully thinking things through, he tends to overlook the small stuff, which can backfire.

Following Orders: He has an independent streak that doesn’t mesh well with authority figures or following strict orders. It's not on purpose, he's just allergic.

Long-Term Planning: Gamon’s more about living in the moment, and he’s not great at thinking ahead or planning for the future. This shows in everything from his personal relationships to his career choices.

Impulsiveness: A classic trait of his, Gamon is often impulsive and makes decisions based on gut feelings rather than logic. Whether it’s diving headfirst into a fight or making a snap judgment about a person or situation, he tends to act before thinking, which leads to mistakes.

Self-Care & Organization: Gamon has a tendency to forget about his own needs in the chaos of his life. He’s not great at keeping things organized—his personal space can be messy, and he tends to push his health or mental well-being to the back burner in favor of the next adventure or fight.

Subtlety: When it comes to keeping secrets or being discreet, Gamon’s not exactly the most subtle person. He’s prone to making a scene, speaking his mind bluntly, or letting important information slip when it’s least expected.

Jonah Hauer-King as Eric THE LITTLE MERMAID (2023) dir. Rob Marshall

“Champagne and fur slow dancing at French parties. Money and affairs at cocktail dinners. Smoking cigarettes and laughing in vain cause kings and queens never hurt, they say. Pretty eyes and mouths full of regrets, drinking red wine since the age of 14, cause wine is thicker than blood, and gold coins are running through their veins. Parents travel to Monaco for the honeymoon, only to get a divorce. Poor friends with nothing but money and dope. Call your hot wealthy boyfriend; tell him that you’ve fallen in love with someone too vulgar for your demons to drink a glass of liquor with. Work, bitches work, you shout as if you’ve chew your own gold by yourself. Red dresses and black suits dancing with depression and dying for attention. Oh my baby, with all your money, you couldn’t even buy yourself a soul. And now you pay all the artists in the world to write you a soul. Here you go darling; this poem is your soul.”

— We Call Them The Elite by Royla Asghar (via poems-of-madness)

𝑺𝑬𝑳𝑭-𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑨 𝑰. the aftermath is secondary (but it always comes)

All you do is scream inside, boy. Where's your goddamn courage?

"You are nothing more than a senile old man, dragging the family name through the mud." You sneer, handsome features become scarlet, because that vein in your neck pumps blood that is trying to escape and stain your hands, and you're desperate to be anything but your father.

"Our lineage? It's cursed, almost as bad as the Black family." You judge, like entitlement isn't also a curse or a language that you speak fluently, like your high horse couldn't topple you and all your little machineries.

"We are the byproduct of centuries of inbreeding, father. If you think we cannot get much worse than that, you have another thing coming." You rage, self-hatred running rampant in your veins like your hounds from hell race through the Nott Grounds at night, desperate to rip off arms of intruders.

Nobody but your mother and sister know about the screaming matches you have with your father. Acting like two savages, vocal chords echoing through corridors silenced by Perpetual Vows for thousands of years. It's not about what he's doing, it's the fact that you could do better.

You could do better, and that kills you inside. Because you just can't wait, can you? You cannot wait for your time to shine and get your grubby little hands on the family crown. Your thirst for power seeping from each pore, glinting in your green eyes and hiding in the shadows of your boyish face. You're too young to be the leader, and you're too old to be dismissed as unthreatening, so now you're left to your own resources.

And your argument is based on a fragile foundation, made of cracked stone that is being kept together by hardened gold. It's not a lie, no. But that's not entirely the truth either. You've never been too good at those anyway.

Well, you're made of mead, boy.

The drink of the gods: a result of fermented honey, and fermenting is just another word for rotting. You're rotten honey. Sweet, but acid. You get drunk on your own hubris.

If you need to tell yourself that your father is supporting an outsider, forgetting about your traditions... So, be it. Tell yourself that.

You can be a drunk, yes, not stupid. There's a thought snaking through the crevices of your brain, balancing doubt in the tiny point of a sharp knife.

Should you support? Or should you not?

It's a growing obsession that's been corrupting your fragile ego for years. Should you support the opposite side just to antagonize? Or should you join and prove yourself to be a much better follower than your own old man?

It's not about what's right, of course not. Why would it be? The thought doesn't even cross your mind, yet.

But you don't want to be made of a fool either, so you ask yourself who is even this Voldemort fellow. After all, if he were from a pureblood family, you would have heard about his folks sooner.

Every pureblood can trace their lineage, registered on family trees and parchments with Dark Magic older than most houses. You would have seen him in any of the dusty tapestries, would have seen portraits of his grandparents painted and showcased on oppulent walls of your friend's manors.

You ask yourself who are his parents, his ancestors. They are so worried about pureblood supremacy, but are they even making the right questions? Or any question at all?

Are you the fool? Are you the only one who can't see it? Are you making the right choice? You couldn't be. For that, you would have to make a choice, and your choice was not even choosing at all.

The aftermath of the festival prodded the knife into your skin, balancing a fragile position. You know you will have to make a decision soon. Avoiding can only be done to a certain point, and the aftermath can be secondary, but it always comes. It's a snake blackening your skin or a stain blackening your face in the tapestry.

Voldemort is just means to an end for the pureblood society. A leader and a scapegoat. He is merely saying what other people have thought for years, making waves and decisions for those who are too coward.

People like you. Who are greedy, and ambitious, and too comfortable in their thrones like a god licks drops of ambrosia running between their fingers.

All you do is scream inside, boy. What is your choice?

who: morcant and elowen @nobelandloved where: nott library, nott manor

The clock ticked by the second in one of the paintings. It drove Morcant to the edge of insanity, once. One step from the void—the void looked back at him, he felt it. But then... Something pushed him to the abyss, maybe it was his father —familiarity breeds contempt—, maybe it was the inbreeding —none of them escaped the madness—. but he guessed it didn't really matter. Show me one pureblood who isn't a mad bastard, and I'll show you the face of a filthy liar. Or something. He knew it was true enough for the Nott family, but if anyone was safe enough from the dangerous type of madness, that person would be his little sister. He liked to believe that. Morcant would do unspeakable things to protect his sister—pun intended, since he was an Unspeakable for the Ministry. Morcant sat between two massive shelves, hidden by the grandiose and enormity of the library. Piles of books and parchments surrounded him, which wasn't a strange sight for someone like him. Neither was the crazy glint in his eyes, or the bags under his eyes of someone who didn't have a good night's sleep in years. Disrupting his intense study session, he saw Elowen's feet getting closer before he saw her face. — Something is about to happen, and we need to make precautions in case one of us die. — Morcant didn't say hi, or hello, or any blasé form of greeting. He didn't think it was necessary, with the two of them. Making small talk was left for high society sycophants and sucking up to powerful people. Not for your other half.

Gamon looked at the whole exchange with an amused smile in his eyes, as he followed Ted to the exam room.

"I don't know, Healer Ted. Maybe I'm gonna have a sudden case of uncontrollable giggling if you keep being that funny, and that's gonna be your fault." He grinned cheekily, settling comfortably in his usual place.

Most healers in St. Mungus knew his case. The big shot quidditch player who ended his career way too early after he fell from a broom, and it never healed properly. Some medical gibberish about magical injuries, all he knew was that they couldn't heal his broken bones like every other time he fell from a broom. It was the end of the line for him.

It had been a few months since that whole drama happened. He was on the way to recovery, steadily receiving treatments from capable healers, all so that he could dream of getting on a broom again. Not to play, that he knew would never happen again. But he missed having full control of his limbs, thank you very much.

"I'm here for the treatment. I think there was something about checking the progress, if the bones healed in the right places without magic interference." Gamon explained, trying his best to not show how hurt he still was, inside.

setting: st mungo's, third floor: ward for potion and plant poisoning featuring: ted tonks & open !

"You're late.”

That was the monotonous greeting Ted received as he crossed onto the third floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies & Injuries, swapping out his signature brown leather jacket for the bright green robes healers wore as their uniform. Pulling out the lollipop he'd had in his mouth, Ted stuck out his tongue, which was tinted an electric blue from the sucker. "C'mon, Healer Boyle — you know, I'm actually fifty minutes early as far as time in Cabo Verde is concerned," he replied cheekily, earning an eye roll as a chart was shoved at his chest.

"Relative to where you are now, Healer Tonks, you're late, and on the day we’re dealing with an overflow of patients from other wards. Room five," the Chief Healer motioned with a flourish of his hand, setting Ted onto his first patient of the day. “And lose the lolli, will you.”

With a sigh, Ted twisted in the direction of the exam room in question, leaving Healer Boyle with a, "Don't ever let anyone tell you that you're no fun, Boyle," in a tone that was as friendly as it was sarcastic. Tapping a jaunty tune with his knuckles against the door before pushing it open, lollipop still in his mouth, Ted Tonks gave his patient a large smile. Plopping down onto a stool beside them, he caught glimpse of the Daily Prophet on the bedside table and had to bite down on the lollipop stick hard to keep from grimacing at the sight. That was hardly appropriate for sick people, or so he thought. Especially given what it was reporting on. "Wotcher!” Came a quirky greeting from the healer. “Someone’s having an eventful morning, hm?” Brows rose, clearly not referencing the newspaper and the distress it was causing everyone but instead the fact they were here, in an exam room in St. Mungo’s. “Now then, how about you tell Healer Ted what's going on and I'll see about getting you right and on your way," he spoke with an even and low voice, warm and open so as to break any tension his patient may feel. “Doesn’t look like a case of uncontrollable giggling, so we have that going for us.”

MORCANT ELDRITCH NOTT — first of his name

AMBITIOUS — You take what is yours by right, but your eyes always hunger for more. Does that make you GREEDY, or is it simply that you know what the world owes you? DETERMINED — You persist, no matter the obstacles in your way. But when your ears refuse to hear other's advices, it's nothing more than STUBBORNNESS. INSIGHTFUL — You see the bigger picture, reading the currents of every situation. Yet, when you refuse to take action, some would just call you INDIVIDUALISTIC. RESOURCEFUL — Always CLEVER with what you need at your fingertips. But when that need twists into something more, can it still be called resourcefulness, or is it just plain MANIPULATION? CONFIDENT — It's just another name for a GOD COMPLEX, and you know it, don't you? BALANCED — When your father screams at you and you should have been crumbling down. Is it PATIENCE or is it PRIDE, because they can't see you break? COMMITTED — Because even the ones with the LOOSEST MORALS can also be LOYAL, and you know that only monsters can love other monsters.

WHO: morcant nott & open WHERE: diagon alley, street near gringotts. WHEN: late afternoon

Morcant had a day off, which rarely happened for the unspeakable squad in the Ministry. He considered himself a very productive person, so he decided to put his financial affairs in order. After dropping by to see Alecto, he headed to Gringotts. He had several investments and assets in his name, and although goblins were very reliable to make money, they weren't very trustworthy. There, things went as expected. Some of the most important investments had major drops due to the war, so he had to rearrange a lot of things. When he left the bank, it was the late afternoon and his head felt like exploding. During all of this, his familiar, a black kneazle named Odin, walked dutifully by his side. Right after they left the bank, however, the feline stopped to smell someone. "Odin, no. Come on, stop being rude." He chastened the kneazle, who promptly ignored him and stopped right in front of the newcomer. "I'm so sorry about him. Are you in a hurry? He's being trained to detect magical imbalance, so I think he might be worried about you."

Morcant didn't consider himself someone particularly cruel, especially considering some of the people he knew. However, he did have a little bit of a... Twisted sense of humor. How could one blame him, honestly, when the opportunity presented itself right in front of him?

"Well, that's unfortunate. I do believe kneazles eat toads, and Odin has a very peculiar palate." Morcant replied, raising the corner of his lips into a discrete smile. Odin was his familiar, a loyal and stern black kneazle that was trained to accompany him during missions. The beast in question eyed him with an impatient look, as if he was saying 'Are you serious? I have a better taste than that'.

Of course, the Diggory didn't have to know that...

where: samhain festival, hogsmeade when: evening with: open

"I don't suppose you've seen a loose toad hopping around here, have you?" Atticus asks with a sigh, straightening up from the stall he'd been peering under, "One of the choir girls has lost hers, and she's quite upset. He's about so-big, particularly lumpy, answers to the name Kenneth?"