❝ FOR FREEDOM.
FOR T R U T H.
AND FOR LOVE. ❞
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍.
1978. Where a squib and a mischief-maker cross
paths at the crux of a war that would eventually
tear apart everything - and everyone - they...
"That's really good," she told him earnestly. Frank thought there was something else on her mind, for she seemed to be, in what seemed to be a rather uncomfortable experience, steeling herself before his eyes.
Hoping to ease her mind, he gestured to the seat across from him, a silent invitation to join him.
"Oh, thanks," she replied, looking grateful, then she ducked and disappeared from view momentarily before rising up again and stepping into his cubicle.
She was carrying a large leather satchel in one hand, a tray bearing two lidded cups was balanced in the other. Alice settled herself across from him, then pushed a cup of what Frank could now tell was coffee towards him.
He raised his brows, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Well," she shrugged, looking half-embarrassed, half-pleased with herself. "You did promise me a 'riveting tale' over a cup of coffee, remember?"
⋆ ✧ ⋆
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
THE BRILLIANTLY GREEN and orange sign creaked in the slow summer breeze, its golden letters shiny as ever:
GAMBOL AND JAPES Wizarding Joke Shop — Est. 1732 —
Sirius could not help but grin at the sight of the familiar shop. How many days had he and James, accompanied frequently by either Remus or Peter, whiled away the summery hours poring over the latest inventions housed by the joke shop? They had come a long way since. . .
A bell tinkled somewhere deep within the shop when Sirius pushed the door open. He had barely stepped over the threshold when a short, middle-aged witch came tottering from behind a shelf that was laden with hair-hexing chews, itch powder, giggle water, and dancing, fake tattoos.
"Who is it?" she asked almost frantically, her wispy blonde hair escaping the severe bun atop her head. "What do you want?"
Sirius looked at her, taken aback. "Um, hello," he said cautiously, approaching her with a caution that was more appropriate to the kind shown before an agitated hippogriff. "I'm here to inquire about a job. Assistant Merchandise Developer? I saw an ad about it in the Daily Prophet last week."
"Oh," she breathed as she walked to stand behind the counter. She seemed to deflate before his eyes as she leaned against the counter and wiped her forehead. Giving him a bright smile, the woman said, "Here for a job, are you, son? Well, good of you come. Good of you."
"Er, thanks?"
"Of course," she said in a falsely airy tone, gesturing for him to come forth. "Right. Now, what's your name, dearie? I'll jot it down and Mr. Quipson – he's the owner of the place – can talk to you about the position, see if you'll be a fit for the job. He's just in the back, buttering crumpets, I believe. Nothing to fret about! He's a very kindly man, you'll see." She said all this very quickly. Grabbing a piece of parchment and a tattered old quill, she went on, "If deemed suitable, we'll get back to you within a week, yes? If not, well, we'll still get back to you within a week. Sound alright, dear? Any questions? Lovely. Now, what did you say your name was again?"
