** September, 1895 — Dempsey House, London
Well, you know there is a silver lining, someone had joked on his way out of the Ministry today. Oz had already known he wouldn't find much enjoyment in the punchline, but had done nothing to stop them proceeding. No one's tried to claim it's a werewolf conspiracy yet.
Dark humor aside, perhaps that was the only silver lining to the situation. The attention span of the masses was short enough that it could not be anxious over two things at once. The lycanthropy drama might resume once this crisis was weathered, but while they were still busy tabulating the list of the disappeared no one was talking about the next full moon. That didn't mean he'd stopped thinking about it, though — the insult of Greyback resigning and posting his letter of protest to the paper rather than discussing matters with Oz was still fresh enough to sting, and the problem of what to do with their department not yet solved. Things were tense with Lestrange, too; what had always been a tentative alliance made significantly more tentative by how he'd sidestepped the Minister's office in his plan for the department heads.
All things considered, he was in need of a drink when he arrived home. He retired to the study to have one, where a small pile of correspondence rested on the desk. He pushed most of it aside. Only one letter, in the familiar handwriting of his father, caught his attention. He wasn't sure what he was expecting — perhaps a bit of mostly-useless advice in the guise of a snippet of poetry Eamon had 'just thought he'd appreciate' — but what he read was certainly not that. He read the letter twice, then let it drop to the desk. He sat, still clutching a drink in one hand, and contemplated it for several minutes until his wife opened the door.
His demeanor must have been off; he noticed Sina noticing it the moment she came into the room. Her eyebrows asked the question for her. "Christabel," he said with a gesture towards his parents' letter on the desk, "was in Irvingly on the sixth."
Dark humor aside, perhaps that was the only silver lining to the situation. The attention span of the masses was short enough that it could not be anxious over two things at once. The lycanthropy drama might resume once this crisis was weathered, but while they were still busy tabulating the list of the disappeared no one was talking about the next full moon. That didn't mean he'd stopped thinking about it, though — the insult of Greyback resigning and posting his letter of protest to the paper rather than discussing matters with Oz was still fresh enough to sting, and the problem of what to do with their department not yet solved. Things were tense with Lestrange, too; what had always been a tentative alliance made significantly more tentative by how he'd sidestepped the Minister's office in his plan for the department heads.
All things considered, he was in need of a drink when he arrived home. He retired to the study to have one, where a small pile of correspondence rested on the desk. He pushed most of it aside. Only one letter, in the familiar handwriting of his father, caught his attention. He wasn't sure what he was expecting — perhaps a bit of mostly-useless advice in the guise of a snippet of poetry Eamon had 'just thought he'd appreciate' — but what he read was certainly not that. He read the letter twice, then let it drop to the desk. He sat, still clutching a drink in one hand, and contemplated it for several minutes until his wife opened the door.
His demeanor must have been off; he noticed Sina noticing it the moment she came into the room. Her eyebrows asked the question for her. "Christabel," he said with a gesture towards his parents' letter on the desk, "was in Irvingly on the sixth."
MJ is the light of my life <3