doyle sullivan is back on the street (dishonestly) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2010-05-08 00:31:00 |
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It was still the weirdest thing in the world, coming home from his job. A real job, as respectable as he could manage, that he went to every day. It wasn't the most glamorous job: emptying rubbish bins at the Ministry, but it got him paid enough to afford food and the rent on his just-a-step-above-the-street flat on Knockturn. It wasn't anything like Kee's flat, but really, he'd lived in much worse ones, and he'd spent more than his share of time on the streets, so he didn't mind this flat too much. It wasn't one he'd invite his sister, or Quinn and Marion, or the twins, or anyone over to, but it was still somewhere to curl up and recover after the full moon. End of the day, after most everyone else at the Ministry had gone, Doyle was finally off. It had already been dark for a while when he trudged to the apparation location. The Ministry was one of the few businesses that wasn't affected by the curfew, after all, with all the floo and apparation locations in the atrium. His flat didn't have a fireplace, so floo was out, but he could apparate home, which he did. Apparating into the entranceway of the building -- it would be a stretch to call it a lobby or a foyer -- Doyle trudged up to his flat on the third floor. It was a small, one-room flat with no loo or kitchen or anything: he shared such things with the others on the floor. He let himself into the flat and locked the door behind him, both with regular locks and also magical ones and wards. Despite having a paying job, he was still scrounging for food because most of his wages were going to pay for the warding job he'd had done on the flat. He still couldn't hardly use his right arm, but he was getting good at using his wand with his left hand. And now that he was home, locked in, safe, ... he collapsed onto the lumpy, sagging mattress in the corner that was his bed, and he pulled the threadbare blanket over himself as he curled up, cradling his right arm to him. Working all day every day was exhausting, especially in the week before and the week after the full moon. Hidden in the mattress (causing some of the lumps) were attempted counterfeits. They definitely weren't ready to sell, if he tried to break back into that business again (the glaring red "WEREWOLF" on his ID was enough for the time being to keep him from doing anything too illegal, for fear of being thrown into Azkaban), but they were good practice for getting better with using his wand left-handed. For a few moments, Doyle thought about digging them out and practicing some more, but he was just too exhausted. So instead, he rolled over onto his back and looked up at the stained ceiling with its constellations of cracks. His dictaquill lay nearby, on top of his journal. He hadn't written in it in ... ages. Nearly a month, probably. What was there to write about anymore? Still, a note to his friends and sister that he was still alive might be nice. |