Death Eater Reform Project

( Invitation sent out via Owl )

Who: Kingsley Shackleolt, Seer Nesta, Arianwen Selwyn, Mundungus Fletcher
What: Another marriage! Well, maybe...?
When: January 13, 2000; 1pm
Where: Seer Nesta's Office, Ministry of Magic
Rating: PG-13
Status: Incomplete

( Minister! It will not be professional for them to walk in to see you laughing! )

Two Ministry owls depart at dawn, each with a letter baring the official Ministry Seal with a slight change to the crest, an orb is now present. The seal designated for the Death Eater Reform Project.

( Owl to Miss Arianwen Selwyn. )

( Owl to Mister Mundungus Fletcher. )

Who: Mundungus Fletcher, Kingsley Shacklebolt
What: Awkwardness
When: December 10th
Where: Restaurant
Rating: TBD
Status: Complete

Mundungus shifted through the pile of small bronze coins on the table before him, counting anxiously, eye scanning the menu and avoiding the annoyed gaze of his waiter. "Right, right, how about...the soup then, that come with bread right? Much as I want? I've enough for the soup...I think. Water's free right?" he asked absently.

He needed to do another job soon, this was getting too stressful for him. Selling stolen cutlery, and playing his fiddle just wasn't cutting it, he needed some high priced goods and a regular buyer.

Who: Mundungus Fletcher and Open?
What: Earning some monies
When December 7 1999
Where: Cross street where Diagon Alley meets Knockturn Alley
Rating: TBD
Status: Incomplete or could be Stand alone

Mundungus Fletcher did not play the violin; he played the fiddle. He played it rarely, but he played it well, and it was a sure sign that he was hurting for money (or for a descent 'job') when you found him playing at the cross corner of Diagon and Knockturn alley, hat at his feet. Busking was perhaps the most legitimate of jobs Fletcher ever took part in, and this might be why he did it so rarely.

He wore fingerless gloves to cut back ont he biting cold, and offered half smiles to the people who dropped coins, and winks to the pretty lasses, playing an Irish tune he'd learned many years before. The words were half lost to him, but he muttered absently as he played, and they came easiest when stopped trying to recall them.

Who: Stan Shunpike, Mundungus Fletcher
What: Best case scenario: Sexy dance party. More likely: Stan is an idiot, shenanigans ensue.
Where: Edgewise Rare and Used Books, Diagon Alley
When: Sunday, November 28th, 1999
Rating: The possibilities are endless
Status: Closed :C

'Laid back' wasn't quite the word to describe the atmosphere of Edgewise because they did take some things quite seriously, just not keeping up appearances or work ethic or anything else that sounded kind of boring. So Stan was more or less left alone if he came in with a split lip and bruised knuckles-- though it wasn't something that happened too often to him, most of the employees here were passionate enough about what they believed in to get into a steady stream of scraps. Quite often it was with each other just outside the door. Stan was not tonguing his lip over any internal miscommunication, though; he had outside problems to deal with from equally passionate war victims who still sometime recognized him from working with the Snatchers. He didn't see so much of this sort of confrontation once the kids were away at school, but every once in a while he ran into a bitter dropout who refused to be reasoned with.

Today was one of those rare days. It made interacting with customers more difficult than usual, but at least the bookstore wasn't the busiest place on Diagon Alley. Mostly, Stan was left to sit by the window and charm the pages of the books that were supposed to be being bound into spastic dances to whatever came on over the Wireless. The more lame the better. Spastic pages liked mindless pop songs. He slouched with his head in his hand, occasionally unconsciously touching at more tender spots on his face and flicking his wand in a progressively more detached manner until the radio could have gone off entirely and Stan wouldn't have noticed.

Who: Stan Shunpike, Mundungus Fletcher, OPEN
What: Old...'friends'?
Where: The Trackend Diner
When: 3:13 PM. November 24th.
Rating: PG-13 for language? Subject to change.
Status: Complete

There was always a strange lull during the afternoon, just after the lunch rush (11:15 to 2:30, averaging closer to 2:37 by the time the last dowdy couple cleared out and left Stan to his sterile kingdom). There was about three hours where hardly nobody came in, and Stan was free to do a lot of leaning on the counter and sighing and looking at his watches. On most days.
Recently, he'd taken mostly to sighing and some grumbling and only a bit of leaning. The Daily Prophet, usually hardly worth a cursory glance, stopped being slammed angrily into the bin after a lazy customer had left him their mess. A world without government wasn't going to work none if people weren't going to respect each other on their damned own.

Deep breath. Good air in. Poisonous thoughts out.

What is that smell?

Jumpin' on track: The Prophet. A worthless rag any other day, but of late they were the best source of news on this...what? Scandal. Treachery. Abuse of power.

What is that smell?

Stan sniffed at the air, then regretted it, then had to sniff again because that was the only way to find the source. Something earthy, and too sweet, like old meat. Had Charlie been hiding the garbage again instead of taking it out? Whatever it was, Stan realized as he ducked behind the counter to waddle awkwardly along, sniffing with a wrinkled nose, it reminded him quite strongly of...of...the Bus. All those bodies on the Knight Bus, all of their dead skin and oils on the seats and blankets and that one...!
What was his name? Always sleeping at the back, asking for a whole range of destinations and never getting off. What was...?