Regulation and Control

( From the front page of the evening edition of the Tuesday Prophet )

Who: Snape and Astoria Greengrass
What: Astoria receives a lead on Unspeakable activity and tails Snape to Crychan Forest. Smells like FISH.
When: May 23, 2008
Where: Crychan Forest, beneath the Viaduct

The broomstick touched down on farmland. The farmhouse had been abandoned; it was for the reason why Obliviators and Regulators had been called to the former battleground in the first place. Snape could sense a total saturation of the ground by dark and wild magic. It was like fallout, except no one would walk away today glowing green and vomiting out their insides. Leaning the broomstick beside the back door of the old house, which was creaking noisily back and forth, half off its hinges, he went several paces toward the fields beyond the barn. The Viaduct rose in the distance, maybe a half mile away.

He was hesitant to touch down directly, unsure if the broomstick would operate directly over the target. He would go on foot from here, and he hunched his shoulders slightly and headed into the bush, feeling distinctly wary of his surroundings. If his suspicions were correct, he had good reason to worry.

Who: Euan Abercrombie and Arabella Mac
Where: Venice Marco Polo Airport, then a little church in Mestre
When: 19th April, 1pm
What: Euan drags Ara along on business
Rating: Low?
Status: Closed; incomplete

"Why have I waited until now to come here?"

Euan lifted his sunglasses off of his eyes and squinted out onto the taxi rank just outside of Marco Polo Airport, gripping the strap of his camera-bag in one hand, his fingers flexing against the worn leather protectively. Everything looked so muddled - traditional buildings in the distance mixed with the clean, slick lines of the Airport, all steel, chrome and white concrete. It should have looked ridiculous, but it was fitting. Beside them, an old couple were arguing in rapid-fire Italian about what Euan assumed was the bags on their trolley. He could smell hot stone in the air mixed with something like freshly baked bread, and the tarry, tart scent of tobacco. The Italians loved their cigarettes.

Pushing his glasses up onto the top of his head, Euan wiped his hand against the front of his polo shirt, glad he had decided to wear long-shorts instead of jeans. It was sweltering, and he could already feel a faint sheen of sweat form on his forehead and upper-lip. "Now," he muttered, digging into the front pocket of his camera bag and pulling out a worn Lonely Planet Travel Guide to Italy. He flicked to the map, turning it on its side and unfolding it to the right section. "Apparently a taxi from here'll take like... fifteen minutes."

( Email sent to Arabella Mac )