Death Eater Reform Project

Who: Blaise Zabini & Stan Shunpike
What: Stan's out being a good little minion.
When: February 6th, 2000
Where: The Zabini Estate
Rating: PG/PG-13
Status: Complete

( What does your organization want me to do? )

WHO Christian Avery, stan Shunpike
WHAT Ringing in the New Year
WHEN December 31st 1999-January 1st 2000 Backdated
WHERE Avery Manner
RATING TBD
STATUS In-complete

The house was dimly lit, the fire low in the grate, making long shadows across the floor. Christian flipped absently through the book on his lap, though his attention was elsewhere, eyes flitting towards the clock on the mantle. New Years Eve, the start of the new millennium, and he had nothing to do, no one to share it with. He'd debated sleeping through the damn thing, but that was even more depressing, and so here he was, curled up on the chaise with a book and a glass of wine, awaiting the biggest night in these last thousand years.

Who: Stan Shunpike, Christian Avery, Fenrir Greyback
What: Stan is VERY SORRY. :C
When: Shortly after the delivery of this letter
Where: The totally not burned down Avery house.
Rating: Awesome. This thread has been approved for all awesome audiences.
Status: Complete

The ointment Stan had rubbed into the owl wounds was beginning to itch. It made him wrinkle his nose and pull his face around in an attempt to relieve the urge. Which only made it worse. Instead, he tried to keep very still, lips pressed into a hopeful 'o', eyebrows raised and shoulders dropped. Like he could get the rest of himself as far away as possible from his itchy battle badges.

This lasted a whole minute before Stan realized Avery wouldn't have any idea there was anyone at his door if he was being very still. Keeping his head straight, not even allowing his gaze to waver, Stan slowly rasied his free arm to gingerly knock at the door. In the other arm, cradled against his chest, a paper bag with all he could offer. Unfortunately, Stan wasn't in the position to offer much at all. Crackers and yoghurt mostly, though we was kind enough to bring a few jars of the preserves Grandmother kept sending him. Notably, Stan's grandmothers were both dead, but the letters all simply read 'Good on rye toast' (or 'with brandy' or 'on a baked salmon' or 'when you've stubbed your toe', all of which being spot on, as far as Stan had tested), 'Grandmother'.

Someone's grandmother was a very darling lady.

( Dear Stan )

Who: Pansy Parkinson, Stan Shunpike
What: Home visits, hurrah!
Where: Autumn Run, Bath, Somerset
When: Sunday, November 28th, 1999
Rating: PG-13 ish
Status: Incomplete

Bored.

She was very, very bored.

She'd had her fill of playing piano -- something she never thought would happen -- and had read as many of the books in her father's library as she could. If she tried to read another page she'd go cross eyed, she just knew it. Added to that, all of her friends were under house arrest as well, or in prison, and her mother had moved out days ago, leaving her bereft of someone to talk to. So she found herself lying on a couch in the front parlor, swinging her legs over the arm as she stared at the ceiling.

The sound of the door opening made her glance down, and she glared at the intruder. One of the house elves, saying there was a giant at the door wanting to talk.

She'd long since stopped trying to make sense of anything they said, so with an icy glare, she rose to follow it out.

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: Fenrir Greyback & Stan Shunpike (Maybe Lavender a little later?)
What: Stan comes by for a talk.
Where: Brown Home, West Sussex
When: November 27th, 1999, Late Afternoon.
Rating: PG-13
Status: Incomplete

( What do you want? )

Who: Christian Avery, Stan Shunpike
What: Christian is stir crazy, Stan has a crazy idea
When: November 26, 1999
Where: Avery Manor, Cardiff
Rating: PG-13 for now
Status: Complete

( Avery was bored. )

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...?