KirahPoor Kyle
#friendzone #foreveralone
side note - I promise I'll give Will some redeeming qualities if I can bring it in myself to stop making him a massive dick.
@McHaggis - probably a collab when you're about?
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Section #1: Jig Being Right
It has come to my attention, that I am primarily right and drunk.
Jig is completely right.
Jig is right.
[11.01.50] Gowi:
Jig is right. Feel free to send that along.
[Jig is] 100% correct.
Jig was right 8 months ago, and is still right.
I love you, Jig. It's because you're Always Right™.
Once again, Jig is absolutely right about this.
Where is Jig when I need to vent about politics?Drunk.
The mighty Jig is of course right.
Section #2: Jig's RP's
I'm not post-dating RP's I've been in that died out of nowhere and I've basically forgotten about, so here are my present ones.
Current:
Previous:
Wolf Manor (GM)
Wink Murder (GM)
Project Rehab (Player)
The Kidnapping (Player)
Wink murder: Who Killed Mr. Jig? (GM)
Finite Incantatem (Co-GM)
New Dawn Rising (Player)
Most Recent Posts
#friendzone #foreveralone
side note - I promise I'll give Will some redeeming qualities if I can bring it in myself to stop making him a massive dick.
@McHaggis - probably a collab when you're about?
Will’s case was packed. He’d run through it twice, which was sufficient to be certain. Tent, check. Quills, books, inkwells, check. Dress robes, should they be required. A whole cabinet of tinctures and treatments, many of which were actually medical. It had even occurred to him to file away some advanced spellbooks. At first, he’d assumed it would be fine to hit up a local library, if necessary, before remembering that a year of travel and hedonism didn’t always count libraries among primary hotspots. It was always best to be prepared. Speaking of which, his duelling medals (just in case) - check.
It was a nice thing, the briefcase; undetectably extended, it had a good leather finish and he had done the enchantments himself to ensure that everything had its rightful place and stayed there in transit. The only tweaking he hadn’t done had been done by his father. It took years and years of expertise, he knew, to correctly enchant a broomstick, and it was a pleasing fact that there was a reason that, on his own, Will would never have been able to make the thing leap from the ground to his hand simply by gesturing at it. After weeks and weeks of practice, he had managed to persuade a quill to do something similar, but even then, his bewitchments had been sluggish and muddy (not his normal style): Grenville Lawrence, whose reputation as a bespoke broomstick maker preceded him, was an expert: the briefcase left the ground smoothly, undisturbed by any ambient air currents, and he caught it as naturally as taking a breath. Will wondered how long it would be before he reached a similar aptitude as his father - a year, maybe two?
He consulted his diary, pointlessly: a few days in La Place Du Fourmilier for the group to get their bearings, and then, who knew? The whole thing just stank of adventure, and he had experienced precious little of that - duelling was a wonderful art but perhaps a little clinical, while the thrill of pointlessly throwing and catching balls had eluded him altogether. No, sport alone would not a well-rounded young wizard make, while theory and brilliance only got you so far. As he had written in his application for the bursary, he was in dire need of experience and crying out to be challenged. He coiffed his hair and adjusted his tie in the mirror, although he was by now so well-versed in this ritual that muscle memory was entirely sufficient and one might suspect that the mirror served another purpose entirely.
A well-rounded young wizard looked back at him and smiled. It was a winning smile. He had trained it well. It didn’t so much as hint that behind his polished wand and meticulously-honed body lay a human heart that was beating a thick, muscular rhythm, just like anybody else.
He was looking forward to get back to La Place Du Fourmilier. The Lawrences had a glimpse of French ancestry and therefore felt a certain attachment to France; he’d holidayed there multiple times, and thoroughly loved the place. Diagon Alley had its charms, of course, but nowhere in the British Isles boasted quite the same urbane metropolis. The idea that a Leaky Cauldron might be considered a reputable establishment was not one that the French entertained. Will had even once been proficient in the language - he’d spent six months there with his father, aged about six or seven (only later did he learn why), and that was plenty to pick up the key verbs and vocab. His diminutive former self, recalled all the Lawrence family with pride, had had no time for his father’s attempts to integrate, which had consisted primarily of pointing. He ran through the basics in his head to check he still knew them, but was distracted by speculating who else, if anybody, in the group could speak French. Somehow, he doubted that there would be too many.
He had already said fond farewells to his parents, who were still at home in their cottage in Shrewsbury. Restless from his toes to the tips of his ears, he had spent a couple of nights in an inn in Aberdyfi Passage, the Crippled Kipper. This, he realised, was something of a mistake. He’d done Diagon Alley to death, and since his father’s workshop was there anyway, there had seemed little point. Where better to start one’s adventure than in a new place?
Well, he should’ve heeded the warnings. The place was trying to reinvent itself as a tourist destination, Aberdyfi-on-Sea - and had been for as long as anybody could remember. It had hardly been an auspicious start, since there was literally nothing to do and the only young face he’d seen was a Ravenclaw second-year whom he had once given detention for breaking curfew. He’d spent his first night doing his best to be a crotchety old man with the rest of the wizened old codgers that propped up the bar in the Kipper, who had been about as lively as he’d expected and lost interest when a (literal) hag walked in. Apparently, they were considered prime totty in Wales.
The second day hadn’t been too much better than the first; a pub down the road boasted live music, and he did his best to enjoy the Wired Sisters, a frankly dire tribute act to a band that had been out of fashion in the nineties, but shortly afterwards had called it a day and gone for a swim in the sea instead of his evening workout. He’d gone to bed early. It was probably for the best, since travelling could be tiring.
It was therefore with some surprise gratitude that he heard a familiarly-boisterous voice out of his room’s open window:
“Yo yo yo; look what I’ve found.”
He leaned over the window, framed by the shutters, dappled sunlight falling across his face. It was Beck, dashing down the cobbled stones, swinging round an empty bottle of booze like a madwoman. The image was so utterly appropriate, it took him a moment to identify the portkey. He had, after all, spent the last two years trying to prevent her from smuggling alcohol into the Hufflepuff common room for what he could only describe as mass distribution. She, in kind, had kept coming up with newer and more brilliant ways to win their endless game of cat and mouse. The two got on about as well as their metaphorical counterparts.
Still, she had the portkey. And the two would have to learn to get on.
It was a nice thing, the briefcase; undetectably extended, it had a good leather finish and he had done the enchantments himself to ensure that everything had its rightful place and stayed there in transit. The only tweaking he hadn’t done had been done by his father. It took years and years of expertise, he knew, to correctly enchant a broomstick, and it was a pleasing fact that there was a reason that, on his own, Will would never have been able to make the thing leap from the ground to his hand simply by gesturing at it. After weeks and weeks of practice, he had managed to persuade a quill to do something similar, but even then, his bewitchments had been sluggish and muddy (not his normal style): Grenville Lawrence, whose reputation as a bespoke broomstick maker preceded him, was an expert: the briefcase left the ground smoothly, undisturbed by any ambient air currents, and he caught it as naturally as taking a breath. Will wondered how long it would be before he reached a similar aptitude as his father - a year, maybe two?
He consulted his diary, pointlessly: a few days in La Place Du Fourmilier for the group to get their bearings, and then, who knew? The whole thing just stank of adventure, and he had experienced precious little of that - duelling was a wonderful art but perhaps a little clinical, while the thrill of pointlessly throwing and catching balls had eluded him altogether. No, sport alone would not a well-rounded young wizard make, while theory and brilliance only got you so far. As he had written in his application for the bursary, he was in dire need of experience and crying out to be challenged. He coiffed his hair and adjusted his tie in the mirror, although he was by now so well-versed in this ritual that muscle memory was entirely sufficient and one might suspect that the mirror served another purpose entirely.
A well-rounded young wizard looked back at him and smiled. It was a winning smile. He had trained it well. It didn’t so much as hint that behind his polished wand and meticulously-honed body lay a human heart that was beating a thick, muscular rhythm, just like anybody else.
He was looking forward to get back to La Place Du Fourmilier. The Lawrences had a glimpse of French ancestry and therefore felt a certain attachment to France; he’d holidayed there multiple times, and thoroughly loved the place. Diagon Alley had its charms, of course, but nowhere in the British Isles boasted quite the same urbane metropolis. The idea that a Leaky Cauldron might be considered a reputable establishment was not one that the French entertained. Will had even once been proficient in the language - he’d spent six months there with his father, aged about six or seven (only later did he learn why), and that was plenty to pick up the key verbs and vocab. His diminutive former self, recalled all the Lawrence family with pride, had had no time for his father’s attempts to integrate, which had consisted primarily of pointing. He ran through the basics in his head to check he still knew them, but was distracted by speculating who else, if anybody, in the group could speak French. Somehow, he doubted that there would be too many.
He had already said fond farewells to his parents, who were still at home in their cottage in Shrewsbury. Restless from his toes to the tips of his ears, he had spent a couple of nights in an inn in Aberdyfi Passage, the Crippled Kipper. This, he realised, was something of a mistake. He’d done Diagon Alley to death, and since his father’s workshop was there anyway, there had seemed little point. Where better to start one’s adventure than in a new place?
Well, he should’ve heeded the warnings. The place was trying to reinvent itself as a tourist destination, Aberdyfi-on-Sea - and had been for as long as anybody could remember. It had hardly been an auspicious start, since there was literally nothing to do and the only young face he’d seen was a Ravenclaw second-year whom he had once given detention for breaking curfew. He’d spent his first night doing his best to be a crotchety old man with the rest of the wizened old codgers that propped up the bar in the Kipper, who had been about as lively as he’d expected and lost interest when a (literal) hag walked in. Apparently, they were considered prime totty in Wales.
The second day hadn’t been too much better than the first; a pub down the road boasted live music, and he did his best to enjoy the Wired Sisters, a frankly dire tribute act to a band that had been out of fashion in the nineties, but shortly afterwards had called it a day and gone for a swim in the sea instead of his evening workout. He’d gone to bed early. It was probably for the best, since travelling could be tiring.
It was therefore with some surprise gratitude that he heard a familiarly-boisterous voice out of his room’s open window:
“Yo yo yo; look what I’ve found.”
He leaned over the window, framed by the shutters, dappled sunlight falling across his face. It was Beck, dashing down the cobbled stones, swinging round an empty bottle of booze like a madwoman. The image was so utterly appropriate, it took him a moment to identify the portkey. He had, after all, spent the last two years trying to prevent her from smuggling alcohol into the Hufflepuff common room for what he could only describe as mass distribution. She, in kind, had kept coming up with newer and more brilliant ways to win their endless game of cat and mouse. The two got on about as well as their metaphorical counterparts.
Still, she had the portkey. And the two would have to learn to get on.
Aberdyfi passage is a Diagon Alley-esque location on the coast of Wales which I've totally made up so feel free to describe as you will.
Darren had been to Aberdyfi Passage before. It was like Diagon Alley but instead of being wondrous and bustling it was shit.
I don't think I've ever been so delighted to have been taken so literally.
“Watch out, young lady!” hissed Great Great Uncle Erick from his portrait as it fell from the wall and clattered down the stairs. Beck, the young lady in question (although she was nothing of the sort) casually thumped behind him, stomping carelessly as she did so. She held her wand lazily aloft and was following a floating mass of seemingly random objects that she was carrying down to the ground floor - carelessly clattering a stray suitcase or errant quaffle into the walls, hence the distress of the portraits.
“Schwoop doo-doo doo!” she trilled as though to herself but was really for the benefit of her mother, who was now furiously sitting in the lounge. Beck had absolutely insisted that she didn’t want her mum’s help with the packing to the declaration that, fine, Beck could do it all by herself. Like a vulture with a bad temper, as Beck’s mother always was on special occasions, she was now circling, just waiting for her daughter to do something entirely abstract or brainless as a pretext for seizing the reins. And not without good reason - Beck was the kind to walk onto the quidditch pitch only to realise she had entirely neglected to bring her own broom.
“You nearly done, kiddo?” asked her father, a rather more relaxed creature than his shrill wife, as he joined her in the kitchen. It was apparent that Beck was not remotely done, but she refused to admit it: with a haphazard flick of her wand, her assorted but unsorted belongings slurped into her trunk like water down a plughole.
“Err, yup.”
The lie was not convincing. They both supposed it would be about a week before she found out that she’d forgotten something utterly crucial, but, at the same time, they knew that it would make at the very least for a funny story. The big clue was how she’d accidentally summoned half the contents of a kitchen drawer, the tinkling cutlery utterly unmistakable. Neither seemed to notice, daring the other to mention it. They didn’t.
“So,” her dad’s eye twinkled, “We’re nearly ready to go?”
Hmmn. Now, Beck loved her father dearly - the two got on like a house on fire in a way that Beck and her mother never had. Only the day before, he had given her six bottles of barely-legal firewhisky to take on the trip with her on the strict proviso that it be consumed irresponsibly (she solemnly promised that it would cause much hilarity). Still, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might wish to drop her off, meaning that her plan to catch muggle transport was rather out of the question. Beck had managed to pass for a muggle several times, but her father was the most wizardly wizard she had ever met; she had once tried to explain the muggle sport, football, to him.
The very thought of her dad on a muggle bus was enough to terrify the statute of secrecy, even though she suspected she could probably coax him. Nope. Nope. Nope. Darren would probably be taking a bus. The little shit would probably end up whining about it, too, just to piss her off. God, he could be a bellend. That’s probably why they got on so well.
“Can I not give my daughter a lift, one last time?” said Edgarius Rowle, pretending to blink back tears, when his daughter threatened to apparate to Aberdyfi Passage on her own and see him there.
Beck pulled a face but didn’t mean it - if she had not wanted him to link arms with her father, there was no force on earth that could force her. And then, suddenly, with a crack, Aberdyfi Passage appeared before them. It was a dumpy streak of nothing in comparison with Diagon Alley, but both Beck and her father tended to avoid the hustle and bustle of that street, along with other wizarding hotspots. Thanks to avoidance of more obvious magical settlements, they now knew this one like the backs of their hands, although that wasn’t really saying much at all. After all, how long did it take to learn where an ice cream parlour, three dilapidated inns and what claimed to be the world’s best cauldron emporium were, anyway?
“Sooo, I’m after a…” Beck pulled O’Lustrum’s letter from her pocket and double-checked, “Ergh. An empty bottle of sherry.”
“Classy man, this O’Lustrum?” deadpanned her father.
“You’d at least hope for a rack of full Gorian Mead.”
“I raised you well,” the pride in Edgarius’ voice was supposed to be sarcastic. Beck knew it wasn’t, but decided not to notice.
“Yo yo yo; look what I found.”
In polite company, a young woman running through a grungey street brandishing an empty bottle of sherry at a young man might have meant one thing, but when one of them was Beck Routledge and the other was Darren Hughes, it was probably safe. Then again, it didn’t promise that they wouldn’t end up hitting one another with it.
“Schwoop doo-doo doo!” she trilled as though to herself but was really for the benefit of her mother, who was now furiously sitting in the lounge. Beck had absolutely insisted that she didn’t want her mum’s help with the packing to the declaration that, fine, Beck could do it all by herself. Like a vulture with a bad temper, as Beck’s mother always was on special occasions, she was now circling, just waiting for her daughter to do something entirely abstract or brainless as a pretext for seizing the reins. And not without good reason - Beck was the kind to walk onto the quidditch pitch only to realise she had entirely neglected to bring her own broom.
“You nearly done, kiddo?” asked her father, a rather more relaxed creature than his shrill wife, as he joined her in the kitchen. It was apparent that Beck was not remotely done, but she refused to admit it: with a haphazard flick of her wand, her assorted but unsorted belongings slurped into her trunk like water down a plughole.
“Err, yup.”
The lie was not convincing. They both supposed it would be about a week before she found out that she’d forgotten something utterly crucial, but, at the same time, they knew that it would make at the very least for a funny story. The big clue was how she’d accidentally summoned half the contents of a kitchen drawer, the tinkling cutlery utterly unmistakable. Neither seemed to notice, daring the other to mention it. They didn’t.
“So,” her dad’s eye twinkled, “We’re nearly ready to go?”
Hmmn. Now, Beck loved her father dearly - the two got on like a house on fire in a way that Beck and her mother never had. Only the day before, he had given her six bottles of barely-legal firewhisky to take on the trip with her on the strict proviso that it be consumed irresponsibly (she solemnly promised that it would cause much hilarity). Still, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might wish to drop her off, meaning that her plan to catch muggle transport was rather out of the question. Beck had managed to pass for a muggle several times, but her father was the most wizardly wizard she had ever met; she had once tried to explain the muggle sport, football, to him.
“So, it’s kinda quidditch but without the broomsticks.”
“... how do they fly?”
“... how do they fly?”
The very thought of her dad on a muggle bus was enough to terrify the statute of secrecy, even though she suspected she could probably coax him. Nope. Nope. Nope. Darren would probably be taking a bus. The little shit would probably end up whining about it, too, just to piss her off. God, he could be a bellend. That’s probably why they got on so well.
“Can I not give my daughter a lift, one last time?” said Edgarius Rowle, pretending to blink back tears, when his daughter threatened to apparate to Aberdyfi Passage on her own and see him there.
Beck pulled a face but didn’t mean it - if she had not wanted him to link arms with her father, there was no force on earth that could force her. And then, suddenly, with a crack, Aberdyfi Passage appeared before them. It was a dumpy streak of nothing in comparison with Diagon Alley, but both Beck and her father tended to avoid the hustle and bustle of that street, along with other wizarding hotspots. Thanks to avoidance of more obvious magical settlements, they now knew this one like the backs of their hands, although that wasn’t really saying much at all. After all, how long did it take to learn where an ice cream parlour, three dilapidated inns and what claimed to be the world’s best cauldron emporium were, anyway?
“Sooo, I’m after a…” Beck pulled O’Lustrum’s letter from her pocket and double-checked, “Ergh. An empty bottle of sherry.”
“Classy man, this O’Lustrum?” deadpanned her father.
“You’d at least hope for a rack of full Gorian Mead.”
“I raised you well,” the pride in Edgarius’ voice was supposed to be sarcastic. Beck knew it wasn’t, but decided not to notice.
“Yo yo yo; look what I found.”
In polite company, a young woman running through a grungey street brandishing an empty bottle of sherry at a young man might have meant one thing, but when one of them was Beck Routledge and the other was Darren Hughes, it was probably safe. Then again, it didn’t promise that they wouldn’t end up hitting one another with it.
I learned a lot from Jig
I have no idea what, but <3
#willdefinitelygetgreginthecarasap2016
Lovely posts, ladies. Those of you with two characters, please keep their stuff in separate posts and don't worry about double-posting. I have no idea why that's a taboo.
Not to worry. If you could remove Arthur from the Character Tab for the sake of my OCD, that'd be lovely. See you round some day :)
@ravenDivinity - please let us know if you'll be joining us. You'll have until the rest of us are ready to move on to post.
@Gowi @HalfOfLancelot - if you could try to get posts up in the coming days, would be mucho appreciato.
I hate to say this, but with school coming up, I'm needing to cut down on my RP load and so I'm going to have to bow out of this. I apologize and I wish you all the best of luck with this :)
Not to worry. If you could remove Arthur from the Character Tab for the sake of my OCD, that'd be lovely. See you round some day :)
@ravenDivinity - please let us know if you'll be joining us. You'll have until the rest of us are ready to move on to post.
@Gowi @HalfOfLancelot - if you could try to get posts up in the coming days, would be mucho appreciato.
Just got back from the festival. Thank you to those of you that have posted at all and double-thanks to those of you that've posted in the IC. I'm utterly burned-out at the moment so normal service will resume within the next 24 hours, but, knowing me, it'll probably be sooner.
IC's up: have at.
Some quick housekeeping before I go to bed:
The date of departure is 30th July. I will (later) amend the reference to June in the IC to account for the students... literally only just having left Hogwarts so they've had a bit of Summer to stew before setting off.
I'll do some detailed stuff on available methods of transport later on (mostly to stop Apparition being a total gamebreaker) but for now just go with me on the portkeys. There are three, so feel free obliged to buddy up and use them. Please don't actually have the portkeys go until I'm back next week, though! :P
Aberdyfi passage is a Diagon Alley-esque location on the coast of Wales which I've totally made up so feel free to describe as you will. La Place du Fourmilier (Anteater Square - because anteaters are so fuckin' cute) is going to be an urbane Wizarding settlement in Paris - just somewhere to be for a little bit until we've worked out what we're doing in Egypt and also who's gonna be sticking around.
If relevant to your posts, heads of Houses:
Gryffindor: Neville Longbottom
Slytherin: Horace Slughorn
Ravenclaw: Filius Flitwick
Hufflepuff: Unknown
Unless HP Wikia contradicts this, but don't have time to check.
That should be everything. Sorry I've been delayed setting this off and don't have any Will or Beck action for you just yet.
Don't forget: please at least shout out something here or post in the IC before next week or I'll assume you won't be taking part and the portkeys will leave without you! See you next week and have fun.
J xx
Some quick housekeeping before I go to bed:
The date of departure is 30th July. I will (later) amend the reference to June in the IC to account for the students... literally only just having left Hogwarts so they've had a bit of Summer to stew before setting off.
I'll do some detailed stuff on available methods of transport later on (mostly to stop Apparition being a total gamebreaker) but for now just go with me on the portkeys. There are three, so feel free obliged to buddy up and use them. Please don't actually have the portkeys go until I'm back next week, though! :P
Aberdyfi passage is a Diagon Alley-esque location on the coast of Wales which I've totally made up so feel free to describe as you will. La Place du Fourmilier (Anteater Square - because anteaters are so fuckin' cute) is going to be an urbane Wizarding settlement in Paris - just somewhere to be for a little bit until we've worked out what we're doing in Egypt and also who's gonna be sticking around.
If relevant to your posts, heads of Houses:
Gryffindor: Neville Longbottom
Slytherin: Horace Slughorn
Ravenclaw: Filius Flitwick
Hufflepuff: Unknown
Unless HP Wikia contradicts this, but don't have time to check.
That should be everything. Sorry I've been delayed setting this off and don't have any Will or Beck action for you just yet.
Don't forget: please at least shout out something here or post in the IC before next week or I'll assume you won't be taking part and the portkeys will leave without you! See you next week and have fun.
J xx
Hogwarts World Tour
Prologue
The office was small and quiet, with barely enough room to swing a mouse, let alone anything even remotely feline. A short, slightly portly man peered into a fireplace which was crackling merrily despite the height of a June heatwave. The ghostly head of an elderly witch with naturally pursed lips flickered among the flames, both clear and incorporeal simultaneously. The marvels of floo powder were a thing to behold.
“And you’re certain everything is ready?” said she, with a clipped, dry voice and a Scottish accent. Her tone was not unkind, but flashed an infamous steeliness with every consonant - a perfect counterbalance to his softer, rounder tones that deftly marked him for Irish.
“Absolutely, Headmistress. Don’t worry so much.”
“And the portkeys are all arranged?”
“I thought I told you not to worry so much?” said the portly wizard, leaning back in his wingback chair and putting his hands behind his head for effect. Predictably, Minerva McGonagall bristled, to a quiet chortle from him.
“We’ve never had so many students on this programme before.”
“Everything is in hand. Three portkeys to La Place du Fourmilier at twenty-three past four, tomorrow. One’s in Hogsmeade, one’s in Diagon Alley, and the other in Aberdyfi Passage. Double-checked, triple-checked, cross-referenced. Promise.”
“And I presume they all know?”
“They most certainly do. After that eejit got the wrong day last year, I thought I’d send howlers out this time. You know. Just to be sure.”
McGonagall looked cross, but betrayed an almost imperceptible glimpse of approving mirth.
“Do you know where they’re going first?”
“Up to them,” he said, casually.
She sniffed in a way that was not subtle, nor was intended to be; “You really do have a casual attitude, Mr O’Lustrum.”
“I do, don’t I? We’ve all had quite enough to be serious about for one lifetime, don’t you think?” There was a pause for her to parry, but she said nothing, “Was there anything else, Headmistress? It is rather getting on for my bedtime.”
“I shouldn’t think so. Goodnight, Mr O’Lustrum.”
“Goodnight, Headmistress.”
The spectral head vanished, as though pulled into the back of the fireplace, but, just as O’Lustrum settled down to a fine glass of Dhuabhda Firewhiskey, it suddenly reappeared.
“Oh, there was just one thing.”
“Mmh?”
“If you get the chance, please do encourage the students to consider writing to me. I would quite like to,” - her usual voice cracked for just a split-second before regaining its composure - “Know how they’re getting on.”
“You’re not going soft on us, Headmistress?”
A look of fury entirely in keeping with the flames from the fireplace was his reward, and he felt a pang of regret.
“Of course I will. Goodnight, Headmistress.”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Lustrum.”
The head vanished again, this time without returning.
Aaron O’Lustrum extinguished the fire with a laissez-faire flick of his wand and settled back. He still remembered the time the then-Professor McGonagall had given him a detention, and couldn’t help but wonder if any of the students had themselves also been forced to help restock the potions cupboard by manually and without gloves extracting the various juices from a vat of flobberworms. After a moment’s thought, it occurred to him that, now Headmistress, the old battleaxe had an even greater arsenal of punishments for those students foolish enough to cross her and be caught.
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