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A Short Time Before The Play
Author: Julian Valentine
Date: 02-13-13 17:39
The new theater has rows of plush seats, a small orchestra style pit, a good sized stage, and plenty of area in the wings and backstage. Julian had never known there was this sort of space available on the first floor of the castle until shown the empty rooms that would be converted to the theater. There's even access to a room on the ground floor for storage of props. Practices, particularly dress rehearsals, went much more smoothly since the Drama Club wasn't having to practice on a temporary in one room while putting on the play itself on the small stage in the Common Commons.
Peaking out from plush curtains that when closed reveal the Hogwarts crest, Julian watches as a couple around his age along with an older couple and a lone older woman enter and go through the process of finding seats. As they all sit together and seem to know one another he surmises the younger couple are parents of one of the cast and the other three are the grandparents. Less than half a minute later Briar arrives with Grace so Julian goes out to say hello. Though looking happy to be here Julian knows his daughter is not at all pleased to attend yet another function without Charlotte. At least she's not been begging for Jasmine and Xavier come. Julian likes taking the twins places but this isn't really one of those occasions. Plus, since he's working backstage that would mean Briar would be stuck watching them herself or she'd have to bring Aegean. There's no reason for that if it's not necessary.
After greeting Briar and giving Grace a hello hug Julian asks, "My parents didn't come with you?"
"They're here but they stopped in the entrance hall to speak with someone. I'm sure they'll be here any minute."
"I've got some seats reserved for you but you're welcome to sit wherever you wish."
Grace meanders the direction Julian has indicated only to turn back and ask, "Where's Caerwyn?"
"He's getting ready for the play."
"Mummy says it's a funny play."
"It is, or at least I hope you think it is. It's called The Crusty Cauldron. There are three parts to it, called acts, and in between the time is called intermission. There will be drinks and snacks at the back of the theater during intermission."
Grace grins, "I think that will be my favorite part then other than Caerwyn's part."
They talk for another minute before Julian excuses himself to return backstage. The play will be starting soon and he needs to double check that everyone and everything is in place and ready to go.
Supporting Caleb
Author: Celeste Quigley
Date: 02-14-13 02:16
Celeste and Eugene were seated among the other parents and students, at the new theater room. There was still an intense murmuring, as the last members of the audience took their place in the soft red chairs.
"So what role is he going to play?" Eugene asked, looking at the brochure with the name of the play, and all its cast members.
"I told you before: Caleb will not act. He signed to help at the backstage. We are here to support him."
Moments later the closed curtain moved and Caleb's face poked from it. The boy's brown eyes searched the crowd and Celeste waved at him. Caleb smiled and his head disappeared behind the curtain just as fast as it had appeared.
"He went to have tea with me, yesterday. He told me Jennifer had accompanied his stepfather on a business trip and so she could not be here today. "
"What about my brother?"
"Caleb showed me his letter. Tobias said something about not wanting to waste an important writing afternoon by going to a school's play when his son is not even going to be on stage. Of course he could just make an effort and be present, but you know how your brother is. Caleb was very sad. So I said we would be here for him."
Eugene nodded. There was no excuse for Tobias's behavior. But then he asked Celeste how come Caleb was on the play. As far as he knew he had always been a somewhat introverted child. Celeste explained the reason for their nephew enrollment with the Drama Club had come from his friend Sophie McCourt.
"She is one of the actresses and she asked him to come along and help, so they could spend more time together during rehearsals and so."
This was one of the first times Celeste was actually glad Caleb had a friend like Sophie. Thanks to her, instead of being locked up in the common room he was meeting new students and was committed to the project that was the play.
"What else did he tell you?"
Eugene asked, wanting to know more about his wife's time with Caleb. She told him their nephew was enjoying his classes, but he seemed to be struggling with Transfiguration, like everyone else. His favorite subject so far was Charms and he had been one of the firsts to perform correctly the Wingardium Leviosa spell. He seemed very proud and excited with it, his cheeks turning red with satisfaction, when Celeste asked him to make a little demonstration by making the tea spoon levitate.
"But there is one thing that has been worrying him," she added.
"And what is that?"
"Skeeter's articles at the Daily Prophet. He is just an 11 year old boy and very impressionable. I asked if he believed those things she had written and he is clever enough to understand if those professors teach at Hogwarts then it's because there is nothing wrong with them. However, the doubts persist. He told me some students have been making comments here and there due to her articles. Some parents have been informed…I told him not to worry and he assured me he won't."
"What about you, dear, are you worried?"
Celeste laughed.
"Oh I am not afraid of that reporter. She can write whatever she wants about my person. But I doubt she will find anything worth to publish. "
Eugene nodded in agreement. The story with the Polyjuice potion had been already explained to the parents and there was nothing else Rita Skeeter could use against Celeste, since beyond that there was nothing relevant that she could twist and turn in order to paint a bad portrait of the upper years Astronomy teacher.
Backstage In Wardrobe
Author: Majandra
Date: 02-14-13 15:45
As she's done for several years now Majandra oversaw the costuming for the Drama Club's play. This year's production, The Crusty Cauldron, was relatively easy in that though it's set in the 1970s, none of the costumes required are elaborate or overly detailed. Typical of the Wizarding World, some of the characters dress in more outdated clothing, more fashions of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s, though one character's outfits are what Muggles would term late Victorian and early Edwardian.
Several dress more modern, that is 1970s modern, with wide lapels, tie dye, florals, bell bottom trousers visible under robes as well as a range from maxi skirts to mini skirts. Of everything, Maj and her helpers had the most fun making garishly colored tie dye robes. They found that tie dying the Muggle way gave them better results than the spell Maj found.
With an actual backstage, dressing room areas, and a wardrobe room, costume changes went much more smoothly during the full dress rehearsals. As always, Maj thinks the only drawback to her helping with the costumes and making sure each cast member goes out in proper attire is that she's not able to sit in the audience and get the full effect of costumes and props as the play goes on. She's only seen this play in its entirety, and previous ones she's assisted with, without all the costumes, completed backdrops, and props.
Stepping back from Rowan Westwick Maj whirls a finger. "Spin around."
Rowan complies once, twice, then a third time. Her costume is what Muggles would term flower child, complete with a necklace made of fresh flowers, a crown of flowers, and other little flowers tucked here and there. Maj had her twirl so she could be sure the flowers were properly affixed. She smiles. "You're good. Who's next?"
"Me."
Turning her attention to one a cast member whose character dresses more 1940s, Maj helps the girl get stocking seams straight then assists with finishing pinning the rolls and curls for the character's hairstyle. Calls for places have Maj shooing out those still in wardrobe who are needed for the opening. Minutes later the curtain goes up though Maj doesn't see it as she's busy helping one of the boys style his hair with pomade.
The Start
Author: Tiberius Nott
Date: 02-15-13 01:18
The days were getting shorter. Witches and wizards deserted the streets in a hurry, eager to get back home to their families, or to find some shelter from the creeping dark by the Leaky Cauldron's fireplace, a mug of butterbeer in their chilled hands. The shops were still open, the golden lights of the candles inside inviting the shoppers to enter and take a look at the products available. If something existed, then it could be found in Diagon-Alley, they said. And so that had been the first place Tiberius and Phyllida had decided to search for the Trismegistus Society. Even though they had no clue what they might find.
A cold wind was rising, and they walked close to each other, although a small polite distant was kept between them, a constant reminder to other people (and to Tiberius himself) that they were not a couple.
Phyllida had her gloved hands stuck in her robe pockets as they navigated the darkening alley.
A throng of people vacated an establishment, spirits high with liquid encouragement; they walked straight towards Phyllida and Tiberius. She ducked to the side of the alley, waiting for them to pass.
"'s a dark night ter be out, my gel," spoke a raspy and familiar voice.
Phyllida turned to see the old peddler of amulets grinning at her with teeth that gleamed like the yellow moon.
"On a night like this, gentle gels like yerself need some protection from wicked and maleficent forces."
He pulled out a silver amulet; Phyllida was about to turn away, when the gleam of the street lamp caught the polished edge of the trinket. Mesmerised, she remained there.
Tiberius turned his head, looking around for Phyllida. Luckily, her red hair was easy to spot, and he noticed her nestled in the gloom of an adjoining alleyway, with another wizard. He crossed the street with large strides in her direction, drawing his wand from his robes.
His long shadow projected across the alley, but the peddler did not seem intimidated. Instead, he tried to sell Tiberius a slightly crushed top hat, which, according to him, was just the thing to make himself look fashionable and impressive to young ladies. In another world, perhaps, he would have laughed at the irony, and even bought the hat to tease the seller, offering him one of the trick galleons he had that would vanish a few hours after he made a purchase, back to his pocket.
But now, the only thing he was capable of noticing was Phyllida being victimised by this swindler, and even knowing she was more than capable of defending herself, he could not help but come to her rescue.
She touched his arm. "Look, Tiberius..." She opened her palm, and there, nestled against her pale flesh, was a gleaming silver amulet shaped like an open eye. "It's the Mark," she said quietly.
He examined it and turned to the charlatan.
"How much for the amulet?"
The peddler made them a special price of ten sickles; Tiberius paid him without even trying to haggle down the preposterous sum. Then, he pulled Phyllida out of the alley, back to the main street.
"I'm beginning to think we were blind for not noticing these signs sooner," she said, putting the amulet into her pocket.
"Maybe because we did not know what to look for. Now we do," he looked around. "Do you think there are more signs around here?"
"In all probability, yes. We should try the bookshops – the shopkeepers might have seen or heard something about it."
They searched for half an hour, as the streets got emptier, and night invaded the street. A little frustrated after the initial euphoria of their first discovery, Phyllida suggested they should return to Endhope Abbey and take a careful look at the amulet. But Tiberius had not given up yet, and he guided Phyllida down the darkening lane, and towards Knockturn Alley.
He pushed past the door to Borgin and Burkes, and walked inside the shop, not bothering to take a look at any of the peculiar objects displayed on the shelves and glass cases. The counter was empty, and Tiberius rang a little silver bell impatiently. Phyllida's green eyes, meanwhile, were observing what appeared to a goblin's skull, encrusted with gems.
"An interesting artifact, that one. It will bring its owner a lot of good fortune."
A stooping man with oily hair had appeared from a doorway on the opposite end of the shop, and walked towards the pair of late customers. He finally recognized Tiberius.
"Mr Nott! What a surprise. But we were only expecting you next week. I'm afraid your order hasn't arrived yet. We were planning to send you an owl…"
"We are here for a different matter."
There was a flash of curiosity in behind Mr. Borgin's dirty spectacles, but soon his servile posture returned, and, in a polite voice, he asked what this matter was about, promising he would do all he could to help them.
Phyllida shot an uncertain glance at Tiberius, before placing the amulet on the water-stained counter. "Do you know anything about this?"
Mr Borgin's eyes bulged for a moment. "I see," he said, turning his back to the counter. The visitors shared a perplexed look. "I should have guessed earlier, Mr Nott, with your unique taste in books and artifacts...Alas."
When the old wizard spun around, his wand was clasped in his shaking hand, and he aimed it at them belligerently.
"You tell your masters that I have returned them everything they claim I stole, and I won't bear any more of this harassment! It is quite more than a decent wizard could endure! Debt collectors calling in the middle of the night, preposterous indeed! There is a line, my good sir, and I would appreciate it if you reminded your troublesome, parchment-brained superiors not to cross it!"
"Mr Borgin–" Phyllida began, but Tiberius cut her off with a signal of his hand.
"Who else have they sent?"
"That wretched house-elf! I don't remember his blasted name...He's visited once a week for the last six weeks, always at the same time..." His hands shook a little, sending coppery sparks flying from the tip of his wand. "J-just as I'm about to sit down for tea and listen to the news."
"Five in the evening?"
"On Monday. Look, I've bloody well had enough, alright? Just tell them I'll have the money next week. My poor heart can't take any more of this persecution..."
"Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Borgin," Tiberius said, grabbing Phyllida's hand and sweeping the amulet off the bench. "Good evening."
(A London Inn) A Murder
Author: Andreva
Date: 02-15-13 15:06
Andreva followed Adrian into the room they would be sharing for the next few days. She became startled when she saw Albert Oswin sitting on the bed, waiting for them. He stood up almost immediately, looking directly at Adrian. Her heart started to pound. Since her final meeting with her father she had sent in her notice to the Ministry, planning on joining the Snodgrasses. Undoubtedly her father had spoken to Albert and had asked him to find her. It was extremely infuriating and she had a mind to confront him on the matter. Yet no words came to voice as she watched Albert glare at Adrian.
Eventually he opened his mouth, intimidating words falling from his mouth.
"Stop this nonsense - Andreva come with me or there will be grave consequences for Adrian."
Still no words escaped her, a bewildering thing, for she always had something to say. She looked expectantly to Adrian who spoke on her behalf.
"I believe she has a mind of her own and I dare say this isn't nonsense...at least not to her. She could have chosen differently but she has chosen the Snodgrass way." He paused as he closed the door, leaning against it. "And I don't think Ailbe can change her mind."
Albert looked irritated and he reached into his coat, pulling out his wand.
"I was hoping to avoid this but you leave me know choice."
But Adrian was fast in jumping off the bed and taking out his own wand. Within a short moment later Albert was lying face down on the ground. Andreva's mouth was opened in shock and horror as Adrian grabbed her wrist, forcing her to leave the room. But what she wasn't aware was that as soon as they left the inn, Albert pushed himself up from the ground and walked out.
(Mark) Watching
Author: Isolde
Date: 02-15-13 17:15
Mark sat in the audience with the aisle on one side and Taran Tremaine on the other. He probably wouldn't have come to see the Drama Club's performance of The Crusty Cauldron, if Kate hadn't been one of the actors. Mark had little interest in "acquiring a little culture", even if the play being performed this evening was a comedy. He would much rather watch or listen to a Quidditch match than sit through three whole acts of student actors stumbling through their lines.
He fully acknowledged that he was acting like a spoilsport. Kate had almost encouraged him to stay away, not wishing to see him frowning up at her from in the audience. It didn't bother her so much that plays weren't his thing; rather, if he couldn't keep his negative opinions to himself, then the entire topic should remain taboo.
The fact remained that Mark did want to be there for Kate. For him, she was the whole play, even if she had one of the smallest parts. At least she appeared in every act.
His state of agitation stemmed wholly from his parents, particularly his mother, who sent him regular letters regarding one internship or another at the Ministry of Magic. The Farnons were adamant to see him working during winter break, but not just any job. They only wanted the best for Mark, so that once he finished school, he could start his career well-ahead of his peers.
Mark had taken to ignoring the letters, but he couldn't ignore the irritation he felt about his parents' constant inference into his life. If it wasn't a potential internship, than it was his love life. Wasn't there a nice, worthy girl he could start dating?
"You okay?" Taran whispered, when he noticed that Mark gripped the arm of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white.
"What? Oh." Mark relaxed, and forced himself to stop thinking about his parents and their commitment to ruling over his entire future. Kate had just appeared on stage, dressed in robes that hugged her body perfectly. She wore a big wig on her head––a brunette afro. The sight of her made Mark laugh, something he hadn't expected to do all evening.
Franciscus, Paton & Beatrix
Author: Griet
Date: 02-15-13 17:45
Franciscus and Paton had both signed up to be in the play, having heard rumors that they would get to duel on stage and that there would be fireworks. They later learned that they had been misinformed on both accounts. Both were cast as crusty black cauldrons, and other than tipping over from time to time, they were involved in very little action.
There wasn't even a real duel in the play. The two actors who got into an argument at the end of the first act used joke wands that sprouted flower bouquets. That got a lot of laughs from the audience.
The flower child played by Rowan Westwick came up to Franciscus at the start of the second act and pretended to light a fire underneath him. He jumped up and grabbed his bottom, dancing in place for a moment and exclaiming, "Ouch, ouch, ouch!"
The magic-infused costume Professor Weasley made actually turned orange from the pretend flames underneath Franciscus. He danced around a bit longer until finally settling down, while the rest of the play continued around him.
Beatrix was also in the play. Her part was slightly more substantial than her brother's and cousin's, but she also didn't have a starring role. Her character's name was Moxie and she lived in a box. It was, of course, a magical box and much roomier on the inside than its outward appearance suggested. At least, that was how it was described in the play.
The box Beatrix actually entered during her scenes was an ordinary box big enough to fit her if she crouched. There was a trap door underneath it so that she could leave the stage as needed and the box could quickly get swept away during a scene change.
"Moxie!" Kate Dewhurst's character called out. "Get out of that boxy!"
Beatrix as Moxie crawled out, wearing psychedelic-looking robes and round glasses with rosy lenses. "You rang?"
"Have you got a cauldron you can lend me? It's got to be a big one. I have to cook turnip soup for a party of twelve."
"You're having a party? Why didn't I get an invitation?"
"No, it's not a party. It's a party of twelve."
"How can it not be a party if it's a party of twelve?"
Kate put a hand on her hip. "Fine, I'll cook for a party of thirteen. So, do you have a cauldron I can borrow or not?"
Beatrix nodded. "Yes, but it's a little bit crusty…"
Not Missed
Author: Jet
Date: 02-16-13 16:25
Hearing Emerson at the top of the stairs Jet sits up, putting aside the book he wasn't paying much attention to. When she reaches the bottom of the stairs he starts to get up but she orders, "Stay there."
Approaching the invisible barrier she bends to set a tray over the line. As a precaution, whenever bringing Jet anything she has him stay well back so that if any part of her body goes over he can't pull her across and attempt to gain her wand. Her task completed she says, "Now you may get up. Sorry to be so late with lunch. I suppose it's it could be considered early supper."
Jet would say something sarcastic or bitchy but there's no point. If he says something mean about her being late with food she might decide to have him go without for a longer time; but, he also doesn't say thank you. He doesn't say anything at all. He gets up and retrieves the tray, carrying it to the small table, barely giving her another glance.
He can feel Emerson's eyes on him but he sitting with his profile to her, he chooses to ignore the stare. As he picks up the spoon to begin eating some sort of chunky noodle soup she tells him, "I had lunch with Petra. We haven't in a long time, not since before you and I broke up. I had thought to be back in time to get you lunch by one but time got away from me."
For the first time in two days Jet speaks to her. "Anxious and worried about where I've gone off to this time, is she?"
"Hardly. You were mentioned once in passing. Nothing more."
Turning in his chair to look directly at Emerson, brow furrowed he asks with surprise, "Petra isn't worried about where I am? I've been gone something like two weeks now."
"Just over. Petra doesn't know you're missing. Not knowing how long this would take I took precautions."
"What sort of precautions?"
"What do you think?"
"Either you have someone posing as me or you've made them all think I've gone on a trip and are even sending them the occasional letter or postcard."
"Yes."
"Which?"
"Does it matter?"
Jet glares stonily at her. She smiles, the air of innocence before saying, "Eat up. There's work to be done."
Too hungry not to eat, Jet does so slowly, in no hurry to get to Emerson's work, which consists of painful probings in his mind.
Tick. Tock.
Author: Ferne
Date: 02-16-13 21:40
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
The sound was familiar to Ferne. No matter which room in the attic she traverses through, and she has through many, she always returns to this room. It was different every time Ferne returned. Initially, she could never find the source of the sound because it seemed to be coming from everywhere in the darkness. There was only the insistent ticking of a clock. Then, while the darkness slowly receded, Ferne could discern the insistent ticking of more than one clock. Then, with the darkness all but receded, she could discern the source of the insistent ticking of all of those clocks in harmony. Now, Ferne gazed at one in particular.
Other rooms were similar, not in containing countless clocks, but in having an innumerable amount of the same object. One reminded her of the Grimshaw-Spore library. It was like no other library Ferne has ever seen, and she has seen a great many of them; while Phyllida would cajole the few people who would host the Grimshaw-Spores with her charm, Ferne would visit their libraries. They, descended from Dame Phyllida Spore, had inherited her love for Herbology and had an assortment of greenery growing, not throughout, but into the very structure of their estate. Elder and Elm trees, with shrubbery forming comfortable divans to lounge upon beneath them, were placed sporadically throughout the Grimshaw-Spore library.
This library differed in that no bookshelves lined the walls. They, growing forth from shrubbery, created a labyrinth. In the middle was a great tree. She had realized upon closer inspection that it was two trees, one an Elder and one an Elm, intertwined as one. The fruit it bore was of a different sort. Among the bustles of quills and ink bottles blossomed an abundant of books. It was upon the lowest branch, which seemed to lean towards Ferne in an embrace as she came forth, where Ferne found her journal. Or maybe it was a replica of her journal. Ferne wasn't sure. She wasn't sure of anything anymore.
Wishing for less complicated times, Ferne couldn't stand looking at the clock anymore. It only reminded her of her entire family's present situation. They had fallen into misfortune; Phyllida had run away with Ptolemy for her only companion, Phineus had been sent to Azkaban, and Phryne, in her fury over losing everything precious to her, locked her in the attic and there Ferne remains without any contact with the outside world. She had tried relentlessly to communicate with Phyllida and Phineus, but failed each time, and had long given up and spent her time documenting her life in the attic in her journal. This time Ferne wasn't going to make an entry.
She walked over to the only sundial, every clock was one of a kind, in the room. Instead of stopping in front of it, Ferne walked around it a couple of times in contemplation. She stopped after a little while and fingered her weathered journal. Easing it open at random, Ferne let her eyes glide over the entry.
---
I've always considered Purity Conquers All an ironic motto because I never knew my biological parents. The only ones I've ever known are my foster parents. My maternal uncle, Phineus Grimshaw-Spore, is my Papa and his wife, Phryne Grimshaw, is my Mama. Their only biological child, Phyllida, is my sister. Together, we are the last of the most noble and ancient houses of Grimshaw and Spore. As such, we've been taught our history since we were born.
But I know nearly nothing about my biological parents. My mother was a Grimshaw-Spore and my father was a Scrivener. I know neither of their first names; though, I have a suspicion as to what her name is. Papa once called me Ismene, very fondly I add, by mistake. Ismene Grimshaw-Spore. What an odd name in that it doesn't follow the naming tradition that has emerged in the recent generations. Pheridius, Phineus, Phyllida. Why doesn't she have a Ph-name? Why don't I? Ferne Scrivener. I have a F-sounding-name as they do and it's a nature themed name like Phyllida's. Yet there aren't any similarities between Ismene and Phineus.
That isn't the only mystery shrouding my biological parents. I don't even know what my father's first name is. He's simply referred to by his surname. Scrivener. I've never met any Scriveners, but they could be a dwindling breed like the Grimshaw-Spores. While I know the Grimshaw and Spore histories, I don't know the Scrivener history. There are only rumors and slips of the tongue in our household. Mama, more than once, has stated that Scrivener wasn't a pure-blood. That can't be true because I would've been sent to a community for being a Non. But why would Mama say something that's false? My parentage would've been doctored if it were true.
---
It was a long entry that detailed the Grimshaw-Spores and the Scriveners with family portraits - the majority of which were of the two Grimshaw-Spore girls; some, like the one of her biological mother, were scrounged up from throughout their estate; but there weren't many including the entire family -, but she was unable to continue reading further. Her vision was too blurred from the tears forming. It took her a little while to realize that her tears had spilled forth onto the page, smearing the ink, but Ferne didn't care. As far as she was concerned, her tears should wash it all away, as if it could make her forget her memories like the Memory Charm or the Forgetfulness Potion.
2 drops of Lethe River Water, 2 Valerian sprigs, 2 measures of Standard Ingredient, and 4 mistletoe berries, Ferne recalled the ingredients to the Forgetfulness Potion with a smile, knowing that Professor Snape would be proud of her.
Since her confinement, she hadn't thought of Potions or how she fancied herself his favorite student. Being a student, one of the best in Potions and Herbology, seemed ages ago now. Ferne wondered how the professor was and what he was up to. Throughout her years, especially her later years, at Hogwarts, she always imagined herself a great Potioneer, maybe even a Potion's master, like Professor Snape. If not, Ferne envisioned herself a great Herbologist, maybe even teaching it, like Dame Phyllida Spore. Of course, that would've been after continuing her studies at St. Emrys University, but that wouldn't happen now. With Phyllida and Phineus gone, she was left to Phryne's mercy. Ferne laughed ruefully at the thought of Phryne being merciful to anyone, least of all to her.
She flipped past all of the painful memories, most of which were caused by Phryne, to the last entry. It, like the ones preceding it, was date-less. All of her entries during her imprisonment were that way. Despite living in a room filled to the brim with clocks, Ferne couldn't even tell the hours from the days. The clocks tick-tocked, but the hands - or, in the sundial's case, the shadow - never moved. They were perpetually stuck at four o'clock.
Closing her journal, her attention was drawn to the clock she had been previously staring at. It wasn't a traditional Muggle cuckoo clock, which Ferne was only familiar with because of Phyllida, Nathaniel, and their Muggle Studies course at Hogwarts. Where did they originate from? she wondered. Some Eastern European country... Why am I even thinking about this? Ferne questioned, refocusing her attention on the clock again. While it was a cuckoo clock, fashioned after the original façade of 1 Black Friar's Lane, it resembled a grandfather clock in size. It, in all its might, was shaking.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.