Noëlle Zabini; murder twat (widowed) wrote in disorderic, @ 2017-10-20 07:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | noëlle zabini |
WHO: Noëlle Zabini
WHEN: Lunch, 19 October
WHERE: Diagon Alley
WHAT: Dementor-free, I hope?
WARNINGS: Dementors.
“These are what they want to go with for the new range.” Noëlle congratulated herself on not spitting her wine in her agent’s face as she laid the very clearly edited photo shoot on the table for her to see. It was bad enough that they wanted her to be the face of their miracle de-ageing cream, that they’d taken her photo to create a “before” that added decades to her life was just rubbing salt in the wound. “With new photos, of course,” her agent continued. “This is edited from your last campaign, but I wanted to have a mockup to help get you on board.” “You want me to get on board with this?” Noëlle replied, voice dripping with disgust. “Considering that, as their employee, you don’t have much choice, I’m encouraging you to get on board with it because it will happen either way.” Noëlle sucked in her cheeks, staring out the window as she weighed up her options. This restaurant had charmed its glass so it looked like the Diagon street but was not the real view, to prevent patrons from losing their appetite at the sight of the hoards of starving Wandless on the other side of the glass. It was becoming one of her favourite places, keeping her childhood love of Diagon Alley alive despite its terrible decline. It was just a shame that she was going to have to ruin the atmosphere by firing her agent there. A sudden shiver ran down her spine. The temperature in the room dropped despite the still sunny scene outside the window, bringing her back to childhood winter nights, shivering under covers in bed, each creak convincing her that the neighbourhood hag was creeping in to eat her alive. The restaurant went silent. Chatter dying instantly, no more cutlery scraping against plates or clinking glasses. Flashes of funerals. Back when her tears had been real. The bell above the door tinkled, long black fingers reaching in. Her hand clenched around the delicate wine glass, red liquid mixing with red blood as it shattered, both trickling down her arm. The pain brought her back to the present. Foggy, but aware enough to apparate out, leaving the Dementor to feed on her useless agent or another diner instead. |