13 January, 1895 — Dempsey Estate*
Don Juan seldom read the paper, instead relying on the people around him to alert him to anything it contained which was actually useful or interesting. He tended to hear about most things, just after the fact... or if he didn't hear about them at all, well, he'd never been inclined to miss it. Someone was reading the paper right now, but he was more interested in his pastry — which was really a show of his great disinterest in the paper, because he wasn't very interested in the pastry at all. His stomach had been unsettled more or less continuously for weeks, and as a result he'd become distrustful of anything with a taste. He was picking at the crust, pulling it off bit by bit into a pile of golden flakes on the plate, rather than taking a bite. The breakfast table smelled fine. Eggs, coffee, tea. Nothing turned his stomach. He still mistrusted the pastry.
The person with the paper was talking about the booth in Diagon Alley. He remembered it, even though he'd only been there for a moment. Odd little thing, with the strange sign. He'd had a chocolate. He didn't add this to the conversation. Don Juan continued to peel layers off his pastry. There had been raspberry jam in a well in the center of it but now he had destroyed enough of the exterior wall that it was exposed on one side, a concealed glob that still held its shape in defiance of gravity. This should have been enough to put him off of it if he was being squeamish, but it didn't affect him. Food had mostly been fine, actually. The thing that most reliably made him ill were his various indulgences — but he was suspicious because it was all of them. Potions, opium, mushrooms, concoctions. He could barely get them down before he was throwing them back up again.
The conversation went on and someone mentioned that people were being asked in to come into the Ministry if they were affected. Suddenly it clicked for him, and Don Juan sat up so forcefully he nearly fell out of his chair. "That's me," he exclaimed. Fucking hell!
* Open to anyone who might be at the Dempsey estate in the morning. I'm also willing to change locations if Don Juan might casually hang out at your house (/club/etc) in the morning!
The person with the paper was talking about the booth in Diagon Alley. He remembered it, even though he'd only been there for a moment. Odd little thing, with the strange sign. He'd had a chocolate. He didn't add this to the conversation. Don Juan continued to peel layers off his pastry. There had been raspberry jam in a well in the center of it but now he had destroyed enough of the exterior wall that it was exposed on one side, a concealed glob that still held its shape in defiance of gravity. This should have been enough to put him off of it if he was being squeamish, but it didn't affect him. Food had mostly been fine, actually. The thing that most reliably made him ill were his various indulgences — but he was suspicious because it was all of them. Potions, opium, mushrooms, concoctions. He could barely get them down before he was throwing them back up again.
The conversation went on and someone mentioned that people were being asked in to come into the Ministry if they were affected. Suddenly it clicked for him, and Don Juan sat up so forcefully he nearly fell out of his chair. "That's me," he exclaimed. Fucking hell!
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3