Wizarding One Shots

L U C I U S • M A L F O Y

T h e   L i t t l e   J a c k a l

T H E L I T T L E J A C K A L
sat proudly nestled between the Leaky Cauldron and an old run down building that no one had even inspected in years. It was a miracle that the small pub was doing so well at all.

(Y/N)'s eyes scoured the somewhat dark and abandoned street for the familiar sight of a dark green building. It had always reminded her of race-car green. A color only successfully made here in dreary old England.

It was then that she heard the muffled sound of laughter. She watched as a sleek, black cat scurried past her; hurrying in same direction as she was going. (Y/N) could have laughed when it disappeared down the side alley of the Leaky Cauldron.

It was fitting that a black cat would make its way towards a completely creepy old place.

A loud bang from a bunch of trash cans and some glass bottles startled her and she hastened her pace down the narrow, cobbled street. Not at all caring that her bright new running shoes objected to the puddles to which they were so recklessly subjected to.

Her duffel bag was at least safe from such horrible treatment as it clung to her shoulder for safety.

What little light there was of the day was fading fast now, making it more and more difficult for her to see her surroundings. There were no pinks and oranges to bathe the streets in color.

She missed the colors.

(Y/N) inhaled and coughed.

The air here was so wet you were at risk of drowning just by taking a breath. Not like the dry air of the sunny highveld. It made her feel a bit bitter.

Weather in London was something she could never get used to. The dark skies and the cold, miserable weather. It was no wonder that her grandfather had never truly been happy here in this climate.

He had been a man of hard labour and sun; the son of a prominent farmer from the Namibian plains that had fallen in love with the Bush of South Africa when he had been old enough to travel on his own.

His greatest love, however, would be that of Malory Mason; an English Rose by all accounts.The two had struggled for years to have children until  they eventually had a son that lit up their world like the first sun of winter.

Her father, Richard, had been a good, hardworking man. Raised in Sabie on a wild nature reserve just on the outskirts of town, he eventually built a life for himself and his growing family. He had dedicated most of his life to wildlife preservation.

And lost it to rhino poachers.

The shock of losing her husband had been too much for Liza Hartz, and sent the poor widower into an early labour.

It was after the unfortunate death of their son and daughter-in-law that they briefly moved back to Sabie, South Africa. They raised their orphaned granddaughter as their own until she turned 18 and started veterinarian school.

Her grandfather taught her everything she knew about the bush, along with the old Khoi-San, Mr. Koos.

The three of them would have spectacular adventures as the years went by, cementing the foundation of her love for the African plains and its inhabitants.

The years passed too quickly and Old Dan Hartz had never been able to see his beloved Bush again. His latter years restricted him from traveling due to extensive medical reasons.

It was why, once a year she had made the round trip to visit her grandparents here in England. Bringing them pictures from her escapades as a wildlife vet.