Augustus Rookwood (rookwood) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2008-02-14 09:19:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | ! [1979-02] february, ! npc, augustus rookwood |
RP Thread: The Rolling Pin
Who: Augustus Rookwood; the owner of the Rolling Pin (f)
Where: The Rolling Pin, Diagon Alley
When: Early morning; 14 February, 1979.
What: Mr. Rookwood comes calling in disguise. The owner of the Rolling Pin is not easily coerced.
Status: Complete
Rating: PG-13
The Rolling Pin wasn’t the first of the Diagon Alley stores visited, nor would it be the last. Augustus had barely roused from sleep that morning, before deciding that dallying in his duty was not for the best. Why the bakery, rather The Rolling Pin, had been his choice was still a mystery in itself. Rookwood saw absolutely nothing symbolic in the choice. What did baked goods honestly have in common with Divination? Nothing. However, his decision to get the job done today had been the result of too much Arithmancy overflow from work the previous day. Yes, Arithmancy, that bane of all creation, that subject that managed to even frighten Augustus out of his wits, was becoming a problem. This little excursion he hoped would provide his mind with the jolt of energy needed to at work today to get back to his usual pace.
Apparation at the far end of Knockturn was his method of arrival; he had also managed an intricate disguise via an appearance altering charm. Rookwood’s charms were stronger than his potions, so Polyjuice had been out of the question from the very beginning. His plan had been already ingrained within his mind. After whatever response he received from the store owner, he intended to head back to Knockturn, make a hasty exit to Muggle London, make a change of clothing, remove the charms and destroy the evidence, and then go to work.
With nothing but hope for an uneventful exchange that would lead to an agreement or something similarly non-troubling, Augustus pushed open the door to the Rolling Pin. He had been here many times before, but the first he remembered was as a small boy, probably around seven. That occasion, he recalled being quite impressed by the many different types of loaves for sale. There were so many different shapes, sizes, flavours, and even colours. And that wasn’t the only baked good for sale. There were biscuits, turnovers, and simply divine cream puffs. As any good spy should remember, Rookwood distorted his voice, emphasising the Suffolk dialect he had been born into, but never made so obvious. “Pleasant day to you madam,” he nodded, looking over the counter. “I thought I might arrive before the rush. Do you have anything with a theme for today?” He could imagine it already - little heart-shaped biscuits and twinkling ugly pink cakes.