Who: Andrew Kirke & Irma Pince When: Thursday Where: In the Library What: With the Candlestick Rating: Low
Andrew Kirke was a notoriously dreadful student. The only reason he could remember the last time he'd been in the library was because he'd almost been banned from it; fog-horn voiced and scarcely twelve years old, he had bitterly argued about late fees, growing louder and louder, until he had been informed that if he couldn't be trusted to return the books, he couldn't be trusted to remove them from the library. So he would have to sit in there, as if the whole place was a reference -- and sit quietly, lest he be banned from the library and thus cut from accessing it.
He hadn't really been back since, except for the occasional desperate cramming session for an essay. He had tried once or twice to go in search of information about the dreams he'd had, but Andrew wasn't one for persistence when there was little chance of reward. If he hadn't had a dream recently, he tended not to think much about it. He had woken this morning with the same clammy sense of dread in his chest.
He didn't get it. He'd done a bit of Divination before he'd dropped it. Premonitions were supposed to be significant, weren't they? Like prophecies, like chosen one, like -- important. His were often about people he'd never met. They were often about people he didn't even think were magical, usually ending their lives in an absurd, accidental fashion, though he had, of course, predicted his grandfather's heart attack too. This one had been a suicide. Hanging. His long fingers drifted vaguely towards his neck as he scuffed his way gracelessly into the library, letting the door slam behind him.
He wasn't sure if he should be looking for -- symbolism or -- premonitions or -- Christ only knew, really. He decided, rather than take even half minute to look for himself, that he was just going to ask the woman what book she thought he should get.
He approached the desk and leaned on it, drumming his fingers for a moment, when he wasn't immediately acknowledged, then reached across to straighten up a sheet of paper, and fiddled with the tip of a quill sticking out of an ink pot.