Hogsmeade.
The land of snow, magic, a park, and lots of rich people who enjoyed taking drugs. The kind of drugs, as luck would have it, that Coleman Beasley was able to provide. He had a satchel full of pills coated in either gold or silver – depending on how much he was to be paid. Some had varnish on them. There was no difference in them but people often associated gold with wealth and therefore, Coleman had figured, were willing to pay more if they were covered in gold. He also had a few dried leaves he’d found in a muggle chemist, advertised as an ingredient in some nerve and muscle tonic. He’d seen it ground and turned into a white powder though he himself preferred to just chew the leaf. It made him feel driven and relaxed at the same time.
Getting to Hogsmeade was absolutely fine. He’d used the floo on the 12th June and wandered around a bit, selling a few varnish-covered pills for a few sickles. Small money but he always underpriced his cheaper pills. Get them hooked and he could reel them in. When he wasn’t trying his own goods himself and giving them away for free, that was.
Unfortunately, by the 13th, it seemed as though there was a fog and however hard he tried shaking his wand, he just couldn’t use magic to disperse the fog. Of course. He was going to die. This was it. He could see the Grim Reaper heading toward him and his life flashed before his eyes. Wait. No. That was a man with a lantern. Coleman sighed and popped a pill into his mouth as he ventured around.
He wasn’t too sure what happened over the next few days but despite finding his way out of the fog and finding food every now and then, he always seemed to find himself back in the depths of the fog.
By the 17th June, Coleman was twitchy. His supplies were running low and the apocalypse was here. He was never going to see his brothers again. He was never going to use magic again. His life was well and truly over. Having had enough, Coleman slammed his fists into the first door he could see and pleaded for them to let him in. They clearly felt sorry for him but they happily took one of his remaining pills in exchange for some warmth and solitude away from the fog. Was this what it was like in the middle of nowhere? At least he had a new home, he supposed. At least for the meantime.
Sitting at the table munching on a warm roll, Coleman snapped his eyes toward the shrill voice and instinctively grabbed his bag, “Bloody is a really bad word,” Coleman huffed with a mouth full of bread, “It reminds me of blood.” He swallowed, “And blood is sticky. And red. And red, Miss whoever-you-are, is not a nice colour. It reminds me of blood. And blood is sticky.” Coleman nodded.
The land of snow, magic, a park, and lots of rich people who enjoyed taking drugs. The kind of drugs, as luck would have it, that Coleman Beasley was able to provide. He had a satchel full of pills coated in either gold or silver – depending on how much he was to be paid. Some had varnish on them. There was no difference in them but people often associated gold with wealth and therefore, Coleman had figured, were willing to pay more if they were covered in gold. He also had a few dried leaves he’d found in a muggle chemist, advertised as an ingredient in some nerve and muscle tonic. He’d seen it ground and turned into a white powder though he himself preferred to just chew the leaf. It made him feel driven and relaxed at the same time.
Getting to Hogsmeade was absolutely fine. He’d used the floo on the 12th June and wandered around a bit, selling a few varnish-covered pills for a few sickles. Small money but he always underpriced his cheaper pills. Get them hooked and he could reel them in. When he wasn’t trying his own goods himself and giving them away for free, that was.
Unfortunately, by the 13th, it seemed as though there was a fog and however hard he tried shaking his wand, he just couldn’t use magic to disperse the fog. Of course. He was going to die. This was it. He could see the Grim Reaper heading toward him and his life flashed before his eyes. Wait. No. That was a man with a lantern. Coleman sighed and popped a pill into his mouth as he ventured around.
He wasn’t too sure what happened over the next few days but despite finding his way out of the fog and finding food every now and then, he always seemed to find himself back in the depths of the fog.
By the 17th June, Coleman was twitchy. His supplies were running low and the apocalypse was here. He was never going to see his brothers again. He was never going to use magic again. His life was well and truly over. Having had enough, Coleman slammed his fists into the first door he could see and pleaded for them to let him in. They clearly felt sorry for him but they happily took one of his remaining pills in exchange for some warmth and solitude away from the fog. Was this what it was like in the middle of nowhere? At least he had a new home, he supposed. At least for the meantime.
Sitting at the table munching on a warm roll, Coleman snapped his eyes toward the shrill voice and instinctively grabbed his bag, “Bloody is a really bad word,” Coleman huffed with a mouth full of bread, “It reminds me of blood.” He swallowed, “And blood is sticky. And red. And red, Miss whoever-you-are, is not a nice colour. It reminds me of blood. And blood is sticky.” Coleman nodded.