Who: George, Meghan When: Thursday evening. Where: Diagon What: George is being assaulted. Meghan helps Rating: TBA, probably tame. Open/Closed: Closed!
This was just painful. George wondered if it was actually possible to die of boredom. He thought it might be. He thought he might already be dead, and this was some little bit of purgatory he'd been relegated to. She'd been talking for FIFTEEN MINUTES. He'd walked away and she just followed him.
Maybe she was a boggart. He thought he might be terrified of the mole on her nose. "If I laugh at you, will you go away?" he muttered.
The hag who was currently preaching with great vehemence about the deplorable state of Hag Acceptance, and the stereotypes being forced upon well-meaning witches who were trying to leave the Hag stigma behind paused, staring at him. George imagined the mole had tiny, malevolent, staring eyes.
Maybe he and Fred should make tiny removable moles. Without eyes, preferably. Bit creepy, that idea.
"It's a troubling aspect of society that if a witch doesn't get tarted up or look like she can waltz about on the cover of Witch Weekly, she's just expected to be a hag, and then dismissed as evil! It's no wonder witches of a certain age give up and-"
"Eat babies?" George suggested.
The mole and the nose beneath it twitched. "THAT is a myth. No self respecting hag would eat babies! We haven't in centuries! There's a rich and varied history about hags, you know, and the books just write us off. . ."
George thought no self respecting anything would call themselves a hag anyway. She was going on again, and his eyes were glazing over. She'd spoken earlier about how hags were all but forced to obey expectations and wear torn, dark, unflattering robes. So hers were bright pink. Her hair was a strange sort of pumpkin-orange, and reminded him a bit of Snape-grease. There was a bow on it. George wondered if it'd eventually just slide off in a puddle. And her teeth were yellow with two prominent ones missing. It made her voice hiss oddly and George had backed up twice to avoid spittle. He wondered if there was any way he could foist her off on Fred. Maybe if he walked back into the shop and then ran. She was old. Maybe she wouldn't notice he was gone and just think he was Fred. He thought they might have worn the same color shirt today anyway.