1st October, 1890 — The Painted Lady
The smell of the tea today was making her queasy. The Hogsmeade teashop always had strong floral scents wafting about, but they didn’t usually manufacture such a headache in her, or this undercurrent of nausea. Calliope had not even ordered hers, for her friend had not yet arrived.
She had tried to sit serenely and at least wait for her friend to appear, but eventually she couldn’t fake it any more, and hurried through to the teashop’s toilets. She had been feeling a little nauseous even before breakfast, so there wasn’t much to come up, but as she let herself out of the toilet and moved towards the washbasins in the little antechamber of the powder room, her face paler than usual in the mirror and her whole body feeling physically, abnormally dreadful, Calliope almost smiled. This confirmed her suspicions, then. Finally.
Absorbed in a haze of self-congratulation and persistent nausea, she splashed her face without wasting a glance for the other occupant of the room, not sure she could get down any tea now she knew the reason for the sickness. She covered her mouth for a moment, hoping there would not be a second round, and then moved towards the powder-room door.
It was stuck. Calliope pushed at it a little harder, and then pulled, to no effect, rattled the handle. As far as she could see it looked unlocked. What was this, a sticking charm?
“It won’t open,” she declared - with a hint of accusation - as she turned towards the other woman who she suspected had come in later than her and thus must be to blame. Her eyes narrowed, but that was for an entirely different reason. Look who it was.
She had tried to sit serenely and at least wait for her friend to appear, but eventually she couldn’t fake it any more, and hurried through to the teashop’s toilets. She had been feeling a little nauseous even before breakfast, so there wasn’t much to come up, but as she let herself out of the toilet and moved towards the washbasins in the little antechamber of the powder room, her face paler than usual in the mirror and her whole body feeling physically, abnormally dreadful, Calliope almost smiled. This confirmed her suspicions, then. Finally.
Absorbed in a haze of self-congratulation and persistent nausea, she splashed her face without wasting a glance for the other occupant of the room, not sure she could get down any tea now she knew the reason for the sickness. She covered her mouth for a moment, hoping there would not be a second round, and then moved towards the powder-room door.
It was stuck. Calliope pushed at it a little harder, and then pulled, to no effect, rattled the handle. As far as she could see it looked unlocked. What was this, a sticking charm?
“It won’t open,” she declared - with a hint of accusation - as she turned towards the other woman who she suspected had come in later than her and thus must be to blame. Her eyes narrowed, but that was for an entirely different reason. Look who it was.
