cynthia jugson (cygon) wrote in darkmarkrising, @ 2010-10-16 16:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | cynthia jugson |
Who: Cynthia Jugson, closed.
What: Cynthia discovers Joan's remains.
Where: Slytherin Common Room.
When: Morning after THIS.
Rating: PG-13.
Status: Complete.
Cynthia had been in an exceptionally pleasant mood. She hadn't beaten any first years senseless lately, nor had she gone completely out of her way to make anyone's life hell. That, admittedly, had a lot to do with the ficus that her father had sent her. It had, he said, come from the neighbour down the road. An elderly muggle woman, she had been obsessed with plants for years. They became the children she had never been able to have, and the company that a husband would have given her had she actually had one. Apparently, there had been hundreds and hundreds of wee little potted plants all over her house, each one treated with tender love and affection, nursed with only the very best intentions. And then the muggle woman passed away. In the middle of the night, it seemed, a simple heart attack. Muggles were attacked by all sorts of weird afflictions - chicken pox, which didn't actually turn anyone into a chicken, appendicitis, where you had to get your organs cut out, and the ever-present worry of just plain dying. In your sleep, on the loo, in front of the television. Muggles seemingly had the tendency to just drop dead wherever they pleased. Thankfully, Mrs. Jenkins (the muggle lady's name) hadn't keeled over on the toilet, but rather asleep in her bed. Of course, this meant she had left behind all of her plants, her babies she had tended to with such devotion. Instantly, Mr. Jugson knew the perfect person to send at least some of her estate to. First, little cactuses (cacti? As if Cynthia knew!) had started arriving by the tray-load. She had given them to some of the first years, an uncharacteristic act of kindness that had most of them trembling and cringing. Then came the flower-pots, that she had seperated between Mrs. Kent and some of the Hufflepuff girls she knew liked that sort of fruity thing. Each time a tray would arrive, she would make sure, as a Herbology-enforcer and a plant-lover, that they went to good homes. She never intended to keep any for herself. At least, that was until her ficus came. None of the other plants had spoken to her like the ficus did. Joan, it told her, that's my name. They had spoken for hours, merrily conversing back and forth, while Cynthia burbled happily about everything and nothing all at once. She knew that she and Joan had a connection. A superior friendship far above anything else she shared with the girls around her (however pretty that they were, she wasn't close to any of them). Joan was different. Joan understood. Cynthia, like her muggle predecessor, was devoted. She collected cups of spring water from the Great Hall daily and rushed back to the common room before classes began to make sure that Joan wouldn't get thirsty. I drink a lot, Joan had told her, so make sure there's always plenty of water. Cynthia had happily agreed and so began her routine. That was what brought her to the common room that morning. She hadn't seen Joan before breakfast, as she often forgot to say goodbye, but never did she forget to feed her. Water, sunlight and love were all key factors in making sure plants grew. And oh, how she wanted Joan to grow. Grow up tall and strong and lovely. She wanted to plant her right smack-dab in the middle of the farm she planned to own one day, the oldest and loveliest tree in the entire place. Her fruit would be beautiful. Muttering happily to herself, Cynthia had just finished breakfast extraordinarily quick and was on her way back to the common room. A cup of water balanced precariously in her clumsy fist, extended out just a little bit from her body to avoid spilling it on herself. Joan needed all her water, not just a little bit. If she spilled it, she would have to go back and refill it. There would be no skimping on dear Joan's needs, no matter how badly she wanted to. It had taken five trips the first time, and four the next, and so on and so on until she got the hang of balancing her bag and water simultaneously. "Joooan, Joooan, where will you rooooaaam?" Cynthia hummed in a sing-song falsetto, the words somehow working as a rhyme in her Scottish Highlands slur. At first, when the entrance opened, Cynthia was confused. She wasn't greeted with the usual sight of Joan's healthy waxy leaves glistening back at her where the ficus stood in the corner, right beside the fireplace. A perfect spot that she had chosen so nobody could miss her. It seemed that Joan had left. Storming in, Cynthia slammed the water down on a nearby table and huffed. "Where is Joan?" Cynthia snarled, eyes narrowing dangerously as she glanced about. The room was all but empty, save for a few slacker third years who had yet to prepare for their day. They glanced warily at her, clearly confused by her sudden shift in mood. Rather than consider at first that someone had done something to her, Cynthia assumed that Joan had run away, a thought that failed to put her at ease. Was it something she had done? Something she had said in their many conversations that somehow offended her? Her views on rain forest protection were radical, she knew, but Joan had said she understood! Perturbed, Cynthia did a full stomping circle of the common room, eyes sharp for any sign of trouble or misdeed. A snapped leaf, a stray twig. Anything. What failed to catch her attention right away was the ashes where her beloved plant had once been. 'I'm... here... Cynthia...'. Cynthia turned wildly, startled at the sound of Joan's voice. Not its usual sultry exotic purr, but rather a rasp of despair. Pain. Turning around with a slight shriek, her attention instantly zoned in on the ashes. Broken greenery surrounded the pile, the tell-tale signs of the apparent plant slaughter that occurred. 'Cynthiiiiiaaaaa... help... me...'. "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?" Cynthia demanded with a sobbing yelp, her blood running icy cold as she realised what had happened. Someone had killed Joan. Someone had murdered her beloved Lebanese beauty. "WHO DID THIS?" 'Cynthia... pleassseee...'. Joan's voice tapered off with a final sputtering hiss, a choking fit that rang in her ears and made her feel sick to her stomach. Her plant's last words were those of a plea, a demand for salvation and service. Cynthia had failed her. Snarling with the type of ferocity only displayed in wild animals, she grabbed the handfuls of Joan's dusty remnants and leapt to her feet, throwing it in the air in clouds of black ash. "Who did this? WHO DID THIS? WHO THE FUCK TOUCHED MY FUCKING PLANT? WHO TOUCHED JOAN?" Cynthia screamed, grabbing a nearby ornament from the fireplace that she promptly pegged at a stray third year's head. "WAS IT YOU?" Understandably, the children squeaked with fright and tried to make a dash for it, but Cynthia was too quick. She cut them off at Slytherin's entrance and charged for them with the tenacity of a rapid bull, reaching for one girl's ponytail while grabbing a boy's arm. She yanked them close together, the two almost bopping heads as they snivelled and looked up at her fearfully. Her hair was a mess and her face was pale with fury as she grit her teeth and growled. "WHICH ONE OF YOU TOUCHED JOAN? TELL ME. TELL ME. TELL ME." Nobody answered. Rounding away from them, Cynthia didn't even try to quell the red hot rage that rolled deep in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to kill something. She wanted to rip something limb from limb and make it suffer, as she had done so many times to the barn cats when they had babies on her parents' farm. Only this time, it wasn't with sick glee, but pure fury that she wished to make it happen. Someone had murdered her best friend. Joan. She wouldn't let them get away with it. No fucking way. |