dial m for mayhem (macdougal) wrote in afic, @ 2011-07-07 03:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | character: lavender brown, character: morag macdougal, player: em, player: l |
WHO: Lavender & Morag
WHEN: 6 July 2005, 8.30pm
WHERE: Lavender's flat --> The Red Lion, Glasgow
WHAT: A drink. Or three.
RATING: PG-13 for swearing maybe
Eight couldn't come quickly enough, and Morag found herself staring at the huge clock adorning the wall of the Auror office, contemplating nothing more responsible than her growling stomach and her quill -- which was rapidly becoming bits of disembodied barbs in her hands, all brown and grey across blank parchment. Nothing was happening. Physically. Metaphysically. The entire universe seemed to have stilled into the shuddering jolt of the second hand as it marked out one more moment gone. She could scarcely make her mind churn out the next thought in anticipation of the thin metal marker racing to the finish line. Around the three now... closing in on the six... thirty five. Forty. Forty five. Her hands fluttered over her feathered mess -- anticipating a reward.
There.
Eight o'clock, on the dot, and she swept the remains of her quill into the bin, practically oozing out of her seat in search of her shoes. They'd disappeared into the war-zone beneath her desk, and after sorting through several suspicious looking balls of wax, she discovered them and carried them to the locker room. Hers was second to the end, decorated with polaroids on the outside -- one of which had a moustache drawn on it. "Cheeky bastards," she murmured, running an affectionate finger over the ink. Robes onto a hanger, wand holster set in its place, badge here, common antidotes there.
And then she took an amazing shower. Hot and quick and naked, despite the fact that this was a mixed gender area. She didn't give a fuck when the room was busy -- it was doubly easy not to care when alone. Down the drain went the soreness and dirt of the day, though it couldn't quite handle the confusion and frustration that went with working for the Ministry, so she hung onto it, wondering if a drink with Lavender was the best idea. Wondering if Roger was right. Wondering what right even meant any more.
"Fuck it all." Barely a breath spared for her own mess of a mind before she was pulling on jeans and a vest and heading down for the atrium, only her identification and wand for assurance that she wasn't a wayward muggle.
"Night George!" She called, before reaching for the floo powder in the giant Ministry fireplaces, and with a word, she was stepping out of Lavender Brown's fireplace.