Who: Florence Hall, a card-giving person Where: The Ministry Atrium When: Saturday morning What: Florence goes to get her ID and test her forging skillz Rating: PG-13 Status: Complete
It seemed strange that breathing would be something you could practice, given that Florence was twenty two years old and not nearly good enough at mathematics to figure out approximately how many times in her life she must have inhaled oxygen into her lungs. It was, though, and as she stood at the front of the line in the bustling Atrium that was what she did. In, hold, hold, out, hold, hold. Slowly and steadily, because she wasn't nervous, because everything was alright.
The clerk finished with the woman he was dealing with and called out for the next person. Time to shine, she thought, grimly, and walked forward to the table.
"Wand."
She handed it over and watched as he weighed it, reading off its specifications and noting them down before letting her take it back. "Papers?" he asked, and she held them out, the birth certificate sitting neatly in between her own and a bill addressed to her at home to prove her current residence. That hadn't been one of the requirements, but she figured it was better to be over-prepared than under.
He flicked through them, pausing at the foreign document, and she forced herself to keep breathing. She wasn't nervous. Everything was alright.
"Jamaica?"
"My father," she explained, hopefully with more poise than she felt. "He moved back years ago, I've been all week trying to get hold of him." Light conversation. Just like nothing was amiss. Pass it by, she thought, as though she could control him simply with the strength of her desperation. Pass it by, pass it by, pass it by.
He gave her a shrewd, calculating look. "You really want this card."
"I'm here, aren't I?" Florence forced a small laugh, but something in her stomach was tightening rapidly. This was not good, really not good, and she felt adrenalin starting to rise up in her body and tempting her to run-- but that would only draw more attention to her, make her look guilty as all hell. She could still get out of this okay. She just had to be careful.
"This certificate's fake," the man told her, prompting her heart to sink and her bladder to tingle uncomfortably. "Either you never did get hold of him or he's no wizard. You know how much trouble you could get in for this?"
Shitshitshit. "He is a wizard," she protested, though her voice was weaker than she liked and there was very little sympathy in his face. He looked more like... more like some kind of predator who'd just stumbled across his prey, injured and helpless. And she had no idea what to do, except beg, though her throat was closing up from fear and the word came out quietly. (Perhaps that was a good thing; no one seemed to be paying attention to them, and maybe that was for the best.) "Please."
He studied her for a moment, then smiled in a sickening way, pleasant in a situation that called for anything but. "Please take a seat and help yourself to some tea while your information is processed. Then we can discuss terms."
Terms. It was an innocuous word, but one that prevented the knot of fear and anxiety from loosening. He might give her her card, but she wasn't sure she was going to like the cost.
Part of her whispered that she should grab her papers back and walk out, just leave and think of something else, but he would probably remember her name and god knew what he'd do, what he'd say to the people in charge and then they'd probably come after her and maybe charge her with something, throw her in Azkaban and make an example of her. She was not that brave.
Instead she followed his instructions, walking over to the waiting area where a few other people were sitting in comfort, passing by the time until their cards were ready with far, far more tranquility than her.