The past week has been one of change. The transition into unemployment has been a challenge. For the first few days, I enjoyed having free reign over my time. I visited Pug who is back to her old self and finished off things that have been left for who knows how long. ( Collapse )
I don’t have a good feeling about this. Something feels off. I can’t place my finger on it, but it’s like something is hovering just below the horizon, just out of sight…waiting to surface. I had a dream last night that Mulciber found us, so perhaps that has been playing in the back of my mind, or it could be because Padma and I haven’t resolved anything since our argument the other day. ( Collapse )
Padma’s exhales quietly and then shifts so that her arm falls across mine. I open my eyes and turn my head to make sure she’s alright. Padma’s face is soft with sleep. The dark crescents of her eyelashes splay across her skin which is almost translucent in the moonlight. Her other arm is flung over her head, fingers twined among the cloud of dark hair that is spread across the pillow. Under the wool blanket, her chest rises and falls as she takes shallow and quick breaths. ( Collapse )
The Heath streches in front of me, charred and blackened from tonight’s battle. Dark tendrils of smoke spread upward, blanketing the full-faced moon staring down at us in a semi-transparent veil of grey. The night is dead quiet except for the crackling of flame and the muffled bursts of far-off spell fire. ( Collapse )
I got about ten minutes of sleep last night. My mind was racing after Mr. Macmillan’s revelation about my birth father. I can barely comprehend that all this time the answer was right in front at me, practically screaming and jumping around waving a red flag. How many times had I been in the Macmillan museum and seen that key? How many hours did I spend with Ernie, Justin, and Padma pouring over Dark books in that hidden room in Hampstead Heath – the very room that was created to hide my father’s work from Voldemort? It just goes to show that sometimes the answers are exactly where you’re not looking – right in front of your nose. ( Collapse )
“I’m fine. Now stop it, or else I’ll have to tell Mum what your deal is,” Pug grabs the glass from my hand and limps over to the kitchen sink. “She’s been driving me around the bend the last few days with all of her fretting.” Pug places her antibiotics in her mouth and chases them with a gulp of water. “She thinks stairs are a problem,” she says placing her glass down and making a face. ( Collapse )
It seems like the last week and a half are just a bad nightmare. Either that, or this is all a dream, I think to myself as I slowly open my eyes and take in the sterile St Mungo’s-standard hospital décor. ( Collapse )
The moon is almost full. I can tell by the intensity of the silver light that is filtering through the grimy glass and stuffing itself past the thick metal bars standing at attention like rigid soldiers across the window. ( Collapse )
I knew I would be late. It’s already quarter past seven and I’m not even out of the Ministry yet. If it weren’t for bloody Auror Headquarters losing my Azkaban crime scene composites, I’d probably be enjoying dinner with Padma at Bewitched right now. Well, maybe enjoying isn’t quite the right word depending on exactly what Padma wanted to talk to me about. But nonetheless, I wouldn’t be here fed up with the dysfunction that has become the DMLE and wondering if Auror Headquarters has suddenly become a portal to another dimension where all of our reports are being deposited because they’re sure as hell not going to the places that they’re supposed to. ( Collapse )
creative
drained