RP: Eileen, Marcus Who: Eileen Prince, Marcus Flint Where: Knockturn Alley When: very late March 22, 2025 Rating/Warnings: Summary: Eileen is restless
When the Leaky Cauldron's new ale was finally ready for the patrons, so was the steady supply of Polyjuice left to brew in the warded, secured corner of her room. She was too far along now and with her body feeling the brunt of the spawn's demands - sustenance, space - Eileen felt restless.
Two things helped with such restlessness. First one was the soft satisfaction which came from observing the patrons as they drank her brew and returned for more of it, seeking her out and asking about it. Second was Eileen's nightly endeavors along the Knockturn Alley's darkest corners.
Eileen didn't dare to venture there with the weight of her condition, too noticeable, too clumsy. But such unfortunate situation was nothing that a pint of Polyjuice could not correct. Oh, how she relished the time spent in her newly brewed forms. Some of the donors were even the Leaky Cauldron patrons, but only throwaway identities to use in order to procure better material to spice her Polyjuice.
Under her many disguises - of potions and disillusionment charms and silence - Eileen watched her future donors from afar, then from a closer distance, studying their ways, their moves, and their speech, looking for the strong, the attractive, the mundane. Each of them had their uses: the old squib beggars with skin between their warts so eaten with disease, they went unnoticed on the street corners out of pity, the burly drunks capable of bashing one's skull with one punch of their fist, the curvy wenches with their robes hiked above their knees and their not-yet-sagging breasts augmented by the dearly-paid-for potions and salves.
Eileen brewed some of those salves as well; Polyjuice ingredients weren't cheap and she had to make a living somehow.
Tonight, Eileen's form was of a man who had her brother's age and build. She transfigured her robes accordingly and resized the boots she kept around just for that occasion. Dark, dry hair dissolved in her Polyjuice giving it a nutty, bitter taste. She swallowed it down like a pint of something far stronger and sneered. Her flask held enough to last her all night, but she planned to make it quick.
Just an hour to breathe without the foreign weight in her belly, to stretch out without the back pain, and to enjoy walking again with the righted centre of gravity and without the ever-present ache in her feet.