Tracey Jane Davis (disadorable) wrote in tinworth, @ 2009-10-29 09:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | character: gilbert wimple, character: sarah fawcett, character: terence higgs, character: tracey davis, date: october 2003, place: private residence, place: tinworth |
Characters: Tracey Davis, Great Great Uncle Atwell & OPEN LIKE A BARN DOOR
Locale: Bannerstone
Date: 29 October, 2009
Warnings? Spoooooooky.
It had taken some rather creative Charm work by night, but Tracey had managed to get the blood to flow up the windows. It was Atwell's special blend - corn syrup, a first year's supply of salamander blood, valerian root for texture, and a touch of saffron. If Muggles got curious, she could always tell them she had a motor-whatsit powering the viscous fluid to move, and they'd gobble it up like thirsty little lambs.
When the house had grayed with the last of the sunlight, Tracey started from top to bottom lighting candles and deepening shadows with her wand, casting a refilling Charm on the cauldron of syrupy punch, and giving a warning look to the tame Murtlaps bobbing on the surface, lest they get any ideas. Atwell was lurking behind one of the tapestries that billowed without wind or any visible source of air, a cloud of miniature, wispy bats following behind him. He looked rather pleased with himself.
"The Boggart is locked down in the south facing grave. A discrete flick of your wand within those... voluminous sleeves ought to bring him out, and back in again," Atwell drawled, wrinkling his nose at the patchy, molding lace of Tracey's robe sleeves, which she ignored. "While I realize discretion is not exactly your forte, my dear, do try."
Rolling her eyes, Tracey set loose a jumble of fake spiders on the walls and floor of the foyer. She'd picked them up at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and was glad for the holiday special, as the little buggers only had enough magic in them to keep them scurrying for one night, and she'd needed enough for three.
"How about you discrete your ass back behind the curtain? I can't make you appear any less unnatural than you are, and I'd rather the Ministry didn't shut us down this year."
For a ghost, Atwell had a remarkable talent for looking sour about everything except being dead. Tracey thought he rather liked it, doing as he pleased and suffering none of the consequences, though she would have been put out, too, by having nothing to do but remain eerily framed in a ground floor window, his transparent features written off as a "trick of the light," should anyone ask.
Tracey did not wait for Atwell's response before casting the last Charm on the front door, causing it to squeak and creak open and closed of its own will, and stationing herself outside next to a groaning bush. For all the Muggles knew, she had a whole host of help, puppeting the creatures that swooped between the windows, voicing the moans that echoed from the graves she'd dug in the yard, even the Boggart, she imagined, would be written off as a bloke in a costume, or a hidden camera, or some other Muggle nonsense. But Tracey didn't need help... she had magic.
And Atwell, of course.