Who: Andrew Kirke/ Geoffrey Hooper When: Friday Dec 11 Where: Boy's toilets What: Like a number? Rating/Status: TBD!
It was always a bit of a lottery, the boys' bogs. If you were bloody lucky you got in there before anyone'd had a personal emergency, but more often than not it was stinking. Kirke didn't envy Filch his job. In fact, if, in a school of hundreds, his only job was to clean up after a stream of constantly-defecating students, Kirke reckoned he'd be a bitter, cat-obsessed, grisly old bloke himself. His nose was pleasantly surprised when the door swung open and it his nostrils weren't assaulted with a half-day's sewage abuse, and he privately saluted the janitor, wherever he may be (and allowed for a momentary lapse in judgement to consider that he might be lurking beyond a convenient hole like Norman Bates, and glanced around as though thinking about Filch might summon him. It did not). It was hardly lemony fresh, but one took one's victories where one could find them, and his trainers squeaked on the floor as he headed for a urinal, unzipped, and began to empty his bladder.
It wasn't strictly because he had his flies down and his bits out that his thoughts turned to Viola Rivers, though there was certainly precedent to suggest it had helped. She'd been writing to him lately, and he couldn't quite work out why. Rivers was stunning, obviously, and one of few girls he'd ever met tall enough to look him in the eye -- but he'd never thought for a minute she even knew who he was. It was a bit like fancying Jessica Rabbit or something -- a fucking physical impossibility.
Kirke hadn't even bothered to moon over her, she was that far out of his league. He'd never noticed her watching him -- not ever! -- because he was easily distracted, and often busily driving others to despair. He should probably start working on a plan for being a bit more impressive, really, if she was going to notice.
He tilted his head to one side, looking down, and wondered if an enlargement spell would--