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' i might be down right now, but i make do with what i've got. in time no water into wine but, i make do with what i got. i'll make a little a lot. ' — glory
Abraxas Malfoy
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' pretend and want no more, get up been down for way too long, just get up. ' — glory
— Mar 1947
Mud splattered against a pair of ankle boots, striding through Carkitt Market. The surface was dirtied leather, with a stiff base. Great for journeying, likely pricy. The blackened boots swiftly treaded between the shoppers of the wrought-iron arcade, with much ease considering the crowd began to make way, opening a path.
White-gold waves styled to rake back over his head, and put out his face. Wizard's robes of the highest quality, spun from acromantula silk— a seldom trade.
As if the two others at his side didn't already scream regality, his formidable appearance was enough for the three of them. With similarly fair ringlets running down her back, Claribel Yaxley strode to his left. Julius Lestrange was to his right, his tenebrous eyes hardened, empty as a starless sky.
The people knew. In Cantankerus Nott's Pure-Blood Directory, he noted Twenty-Eight family lines in Britain, that he deemed the most pureblooded amongst all. That brought statuses, that brought divide, and most potently it brought prejudice. All Wizarding families had to know those Twenty-Eight families; they were displayed as Gods among regular men. Infamous, high-class, you'd know exactly who was fast approaching and were immediately expected to bow down & make way.
