"papa," tiny fingers wrapped around the folds of the older man's
faded black robes, sharp icy blue eyes- like his father's- looking
up at him. the boy was growing tremendously each day, beginning
to look more and more like his father as he did so. they had the
same sharp, icy blue eyes, olive skin, dark black hair, and strong
nose and jaw. They were
German, and German Nazis at
that, which set them apart from others."Wohin gehst du?"
his father, whom had been about to step out the door when
his son's fingers grabbed his robes, turned around to look d-
own at him, a smile quirking up and softening his hard, cruel
features, if even just for a moment, cold blue eyes softening.
crouching down to his boy's height he placed one broad, large
hand on his left shoulder, his eyes looking into his own. in g-
erman, the language of their people, he spoke to him."mein
Sohn, Ich muss gehen und mich für das Hexenreich."
'wirst du wiederkommen?"the boy asked, tilting his head. his
father smiled, there was a slight sadness in his eyes, but he
threw back his head and laughed. he used the hand on his
shoulder to ruffle his son's hair before standing up again.
"Natürlich, otto."leaning down again, he pressed his lips to his
forehead, as a parting gesture, before walking over to his mum
and pecking her on her lips. she smiled, when he spoke.
"Ich liebe dich, meine Liebe."
he walked away then, stepping out the door to their family's
home. biting his soft lips, the boy turned to his mother, who
had come to stand beside him. 'Wird Papa in Ordnung sein?"
"Na sicher."
but there was a hint of worry in her voice.
January 3rd, 1947
seventeen
"halt den mund, fräulein." the words came out in a snarl,
icy blue eyes narrowed with rage, teeth bared. his wand
was clenched tightly in his left hand, pointed directly at
the woman before him. she was slim and blonde, with
bright green eyes, but she was pale- either an am-
erican or a British woman. British, most obviously to him,
with the telltale accent, and by the looks of it, she was a
Resistance member as well, which was even worse. And
it was worse, because the Resistance had murdered his
father- he was a Hexenreich member, and, along with his
colleagues, had been ambushed by a group of their rivals-
the Resistance. He had fought valiantly to the death, but
didn't make it out while the rest of them did. Nevertheless,
she was one of the people who had killed him.
The woman smirked before whipping out her wand and
pointing it at him, just like he was at her. A gleam of
rage burned in the depths of her eyes, and his hand
tightened around his wand. "You're one of them, aren't
you? Just like your filthy rat of a father was, before I
killed him eleven years ago."
"halt den mund."He repeated himself again, the words
twisting out of his lips in a snarl once more. She snorted,
and his lips curled back over his teeth. "Mach mich nicht
dazu, dich zu töten, fräulein."
Epilogue
nineteen years old [current age]
otto aristide-aleksandr is now nineteen years old,
and it had been eight years since the death of his papa,
or his father, back in 1941. his mother, hanna, is still
living in their home with him in Raven's Ghyll, Frankfurt,
Germany. although the Resistance has apparently
"defeated" the Hexenreich, he is still a member, no matter
if they even tear down the organization, he will always
pledge his loyalty to them, because he is still a German
Nazi with a hatred for British people, in blood, in soul,
and in heart.
he has still not avenged his father by killing the woman
who killed him.
translations [german to english]:
Wohin gehst du? - where're you going?
zum Hexenreich - to the Hexenreich
wirst du wiederkommen? - will you return?
Natürlich, otto - naturally, otto
Ich liebe dich, meine Liebe - I love you, my love
Wird Papa in Ordnung sein? - Will Papa be okay?
"Na sicher." - of course
halt den mund, fräulein. - shut your mouth, young lady.
Mach mich nicht dazu, dich zu töten- do not make me kill you.
Roleplay: You come across one of these posts on the site. Please select one & reply as your character:Option One - Amelia Nixon was many things, but she was never a pushover reporter that people could just usher away with a busy shuffle past. She was dedicated and eager to cut to the very middle of the current political tensions because she was Amelia Nixon and her articles would most certainly become front page material.
“Sir, please! It’s for the Prophet, how do you feel-“
Another one brushed passed her, the shuffling busy masses making their way through Diagon Alley for the lunchtime rush. This had been the best possible time to get people, but none of them were giving her anything to go with.
Only momentarily discouraged, the short red headed lady took a seat on a nearby bench. Her quill resting in her left hand and her notepad ready in the opposite hand. Amelia pouted, tapping the quill against her leg as she scanned the waves of people for somebody - anybody - who looked like they had something to say.
She had been dreaming of her name in bold print, Amelia Nixon: The Source of Today’s Tomorrow. She had been dreaming of the larger office and the secretaries that would fetch her the morning coffee and fetch her anything she needed. The VIP interviews and the most exclusive press passes. But all Amelia had was a page seventeen piece on the rising number of frogs in London.
Hardened by a day of no success, the reporter stood up and started to trod off down the alley. A loose stone on the cobble path caught her heel, sending the distraught girl toppling down to the ground.
“Merlin’s fog watch, my heel is broken! Help!” she yelled as she tried desperately to recover her shoe frantically in the middle of the Diagon Alley moving crowds.
Roleplay Response:otto was not someone to take unnecessary trips from one country to
another- especially when he hated the people who lived in that country.
however, his dear mum was requesting that he go and restock their needs
in Diagon Alley and possibly Hogsmeade. He would do anything for his mum.
even if it meant venturing into the middle of enemy lines.
he was a hardened soldier, a seasoned killer, no one could deny him
that. his fellow Hexenreich members were impressed. They had his
back, and he had theirs. No matter if the Brittish thought they had
defeated them and scattered their forces. He was still a loyal member,
through and through, and had hopes for the distant future that they,
someday, might try and retake Wizarding Britain once more.
And he knew that his fellow colleagues were wishing the same thing.
(--he took the words, Once a Hexenreich, Always a Hexenreich, spoken
to his father before he died, to heart. He always took his job extremely
serious, no matter if the Resistance- or anyone else, for that matter,
thought that they were born bastards. No, he was well bred, as all the
German Nazis were. In all honesty, it was the British who were maggots.)
"Aus dem Weg!" the younger German muttered under his breath, hoping
against hope that no one would hear the words that were most obviously
German as he pushed impatiently through the Diagon Alley's writhing crowds.
If they had, and they recognized him as one of the Hexenreich members
still alive that had been on the front lines, then they would be on him like
a pack of wolves in an instant. He didn't need to be put on trail with a
Ministry audience and then be branded as a murderer of thousands.
"Merlin’s fog watch, my heel is broken! Help!"the young German paused for a moment, debating, when he heard the
shout of pain. should he help? possibly not, if the person was British-
he would not, no matter the situation, help an enemy, even if the person
was, indeed, innocent in the war. For Hitler's sake, her voice was quite
annoying, and she wasn't even talking to him!
"Scheiß,"
he cussed in German under his breath, shaking his dark-haired head.
There was a extreme possibility the woman would recognize him- by
the dark skin, chiseled jaw, and dark hair- as German and refuse his
assistance anyway. A snarl tore through his parted lips- a gruesome
snarl from the back of his throat- as the crowds of people began to
push, trying to get by. Snarling at anyone who came near to him he
made his way over to the woman laying on the ground. A smirk quirked
up his lips, and the snarl died in his throat.
"You should look where you'e going next time."
OTHERHow did you find us?
Recommendation by Callum Airey
