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BeakerSqueedom
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Blurbs|
This is Harry Potter based, with the exception that most cannons are now a mater of history. This takes place some time after the books. Yes, no Harry Potter to save the day---except for one little go-fer.
She peered at the half-intact clock ticking minutes, seconds, away on the grimy wall, the big hand barely moving across the number as the ashy dusk drew in. Hardly convinced that the others were coming, she darted swiftly to the window for a quick gander; the dark, ragged curtain swung aside with a flick of her tiny wrist. The ricochet of passing pedestrians invoked horrid hallucinations—they were suspicious, weren’t they? She dragged the curtain over the window to suffer the gloom once more.
She slumped back in her chair. Patience wearing thin, she brought her hands to her face to soothe her throbbing temple. The silence could have provided her with what would have been a nerve-calmer, but as it turned out, it only encouraged her ever-rising fear. It was consuming her little by little. She was too sucked in by her worries to catch the mournful wail of the opening door. Her eyes glued to the floor, the creeping of a shadow made the stranger’s presence faintly known to her; she shot up from her chair to interrogate her intruder with the use of a sharp wand to press against what she felt was a neck.
“Should you risk killing the prime minister, Prescott?” Murmured an airy voice that made even flowers wilt. He brushed aside her wand with a nonchalant air.
"Minister, don’t accuse me of such a vile crime.” Lady felt slight ease to hear him resting breathlessly in the old armchair. She tucked away her wand in a hasty manner. She paced the room briskly, quite disdained by his blunt allegation. At a point she stopped—back facing him.
The room was dim and displeasing, the wall’s paint had peeled considerably over the years and even as he sat the room looked much too crowded with filth scattered about. Although it lacked in furniture, the space still felt as though it shrunk significantly. It was a wonder she hadn’t waved her wand and prettied the place up.
"It was all in jest,” He replied with a soft chuckle. “I assume you brought me here for a reason—other than useless chatter that will bring about nothing in particular?”
She didn’t respond. He realized that her body trembled with writhing anger if not fear at the question. There he sat, watching her quietly as she jerked her body around to look at him. Her dark side-swept bangs were plastered against her moist pink forehead. She had been sweating all too noticeably. He leaned forward, this time more intently. She gripped his shoulders roughly, her nails dug into them painfully—falter he did not.
“He is still up and about as we speak, Mr. Deadly.” Her voice was dangerously low as she spoke.
“Who? In order for me to react, I simply must know.” He reminded.
"He who must not be na--” She was cut off by his protest of disbelief.
“How many times will you persist before you get yourself fired?” He inquired darkly.
She shook her head. “Yet you neglect the signs? Shun my warnings?" she asked, releasing him to retreat back into the comfort of her own chair.
“I will have none of this.” He declared, shooting up from his seat.
"Just recently Mr. Don Music was under the imperious curse," she began, ignoring his protests. He shook his head as she splurged into the evidence. "Murdering our best auror, Annie Sue…" she explained, suppressing her ever-growing sneer.
“End of discussion!” He barked.
She shoved him back into his chair wordlessly, baring her yellow teeth with rage.
“Continuing!” She spat.
The Ministry had been less than pleased to further investigate the case; the mere thought of the dark lord returning was all too fearful to believe. Witches and wizards still revered (with fear) Voldemort’s impeccable capabilities and restricted saying his name in the presence of others—even themselves. Of course, it did not help her accusation, since this had occurred over forty years ago after the following declaration of his death.
He observed his claws idly; contemplating what she hoped would be her theory. He gazed idly at her pale face expecting another explanation for the teacher’s death over at the infamous Hogwarts. "You’re fired." He said quietly.
He had surprised her—that invoked a reaction from her for sure. She looked at him, eyes wide with bewilderment. "You cannot dislodge, me, the head of the department of mysteries, merely because I dragged you here to rethink the possibilities of what could have been the cause of all this!"
“Can’t I? I beg to differ.” He said, furious.
“The school’s lost a most treasured instructor! You sent him to Azkaban afterall!” She cried, running up to him.
As she spoke, he scoffed, looking absently to the clock. Her reasons fell on deaf ears once she finished.
A few minutes later...
He walked out of the room and into the outside, leaving her dumbfounded.
Once again her screams drifted off into the silence as he walked away, the chatel becoming smaller until it was out of sight.
This is Harry Potter based, with the exception that most cannons are now a mater of history. This takes place some time after the books. Yes, no Harry Potter to save the day---except for one little go-fer.
Hearsay Is Naysay!
She peered at the half-intact clock ticking minutes, seconds, away on the grimy wall, the big hand barely moving across the number as the ashy dusk drew in. Hardly convinced that the others were coming, she darted swiftly to the window for a quick gander; the dark, ragged curtain swung aside with a flick of her tiny wrist. The ricochet of passing pedestrians invoked horrid hallucinations—they were suspicious, weren’t they? She dragged the curtain over the window to suffer the gloom once more.
She slumped back in her chair. Patience wearing thin, she brought her hands to her face to soothe her throbbing temple. The silence could have provided her with what would have been a nerve-calmer, but as it turned out, it only encouraged her ever-rising fear. It was consuming her little by little. She was too sucked in by her worries to catch the mournful wail of the opening door. Her eyes glued to the floor, the creeping of a shadow made the stranger’s presence faintly known to her; she shot up from her chair to interrogate her intruder with the use of a sharp wand to press against what she felt was a neck.
“Should you risk killing the prime minister, Prescott?” Murmured an airy voice that made even flowers wilt. He brushed aside her wand with a nonchalant air.
"Minister, don’t accuse me of such a vile crime.” Lady felt slight ease to hear him resting breathlessly in the old armchair. She tucked away her wand in a hasty manner. She paced the room briskly, quite disdained by his blunt allegation. At a point she stopped—back facing him.
The room was dim and displeasing, the wall’s paint had peeled considerably over the years and even as he sat the room looked much too crowded with filth scattered about. Although it lacked in furniture, the space still felt as though it shrunk significantly. It was a wonder she hadn’t waved her wand and prettied the place up.
"It was all in jest,” He replied with a soft chuckle. “I assume you brought me here for a reason—other than useless chatter that will bring about nothing in particular?”
She didn’t respond. He realized that her body trembled with writhing anger if not fear at the question. There he sat, watching her quietly as she jerked her body around to look at him. Her dark side-swept bangs were plastered against her moist pink forehead. She had been sweating all too noticeably. He leaned forward, this time more intently. She gripped his shoulders roughly, her nails dug into them painfully—falter he did not.
“He is still up and about as we speak, Mr. Deadly.” Her voice was dangerously low as she spoke.
“Who? In order for me to react, I simply must know.” He reminded.
"He who must not be na--” She was cut off by his protest of disbelief.
“How many times will you persist before you get yourself fired?” He inquired darkly.
She shook her head. “Yet you neglect the signs? Shun my warnings?" she asked, releasing him to retreat back into the comfort of her own chair.
“I will have none of this.” He declared, shooting up from his seat.
"Just recently Mr. Don Music was under the imperious curse," she began, ignoring his protests. He shook his head as she splurged into the evidence. "Murdering our best auror, Annie Sue…" she explained, suppressing her ever-growing sneer.
“End of discussion!” He barked.
She shoved him back into his chair wordlessly, baring her yellow teeth with rage.
“Continuing!” She spat.
The Ministry had been less than pleased to further investigate the case; the mere thought of the dark lord returning was all too fearful to believe. Witches and wizards still revered (with fear) Voldemort’s impeccable capabilities and restricted saying his name in the presence of others—even themselves. Of course, it did not help her accusation, since this had occurred over forty years ago after the following declaration of his death.
He observed his claws idly; contemplating what she hoped would be her theory. He gazed idly at her pale face expecting another explanation for the teacher’s death over at the infamous Hogwarts. "You’re fired." He said quietly.
He had surprised her—that invoked a reaction from her for sure. She looked at him, eyes wide with bewilderment. "You cannot dislodge, me, the head of the department of mysteries, merely because I dragged you here to rethink the possibilities of what could have been the cause of all this!"
“Can’t I? I beg to differ.” He said, furious.
“The school’s lost a most treasured instructor! You sent him to Azkaban afterall!” She cried, running up to him.
As she spoke, he scoffed, looking absently to the clock. Her reasons fell on deaf ears once she finished.
A few minutes later...
He walked out of the room and into the outside, leaving her dumbfounded.
Once again her screams drifted off into the silence as he walked away, the chatel becoming smaller until it was out of sight.
