riddlelog | open → i've run campaigns against the light;

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open → i've run campaigns against the light;

a → the ministry

( the time deviants registration department is open for business, and true to its nature as the unholy lovechild of the dmle and the dmac, its main defining trait appears to be 'ruthless efficiency'. well, that and being a little bit understaffed, considering that some parts of the registration seem to be held not just by your betters, but by your way betters.

like bellatrix, yours truly, who completely missed the seminar on work-life-balance, but definitely attended the one on dedication to the cause several times over. she can be found just about anywhere – maybe she just got done snapping at some poor sod, maybe you're unfortunate enough to share an elevator with her, maybe you're sitting across from her at one of the registration desks and looked at her a little funny, maybe you're someone who knows her well enough to be able to tell that she's been on her feet for forty-eight hours and counting –– or maybe you have an actual magical accident to report. whatever the case, she is going to be there, sharp and all cool politeness: )

And what would your problem be?

( and better make it a good one, because getting the trace only really hurts if you annoy her. )

b → wizarding london

( sooner or later, even she will be done professionally oppressing people for a living she doesn't even need too make –– and what better to do with all this fortune than spend it? odds are the actual purchase was made in knockturn alley, but maybe she is en route to some other shop. can't live off of dark artefacts alone now, can you.

anyway, as fate will have it, she manages to walk straight into you, or vice versa, and the newly-acquired item, an especially cursed manuscript wrapped carefully in spell-woven cloth, does as things do when affected by the basic law that is gravity: it goes tumbling. and since bella can't tell if the thoroughly warded cloth is still sitting snug in all the right places, all while being in no position to be involved in someone's rather public maybe-death... )

You mustn't touch it, unless you have a death wish.

( her tone all but implies you do, regardless of whether she was the one to cause the accident or not. )

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[With his luck, Ron is starting to wonder if he does have a secret death wish after all. He's got a baseball cap pulled low over his face, as much of his red hair stuffed under it as he could manage. The cap - London Mets, whatever those are - was taken from a muggle boy and Ron is not terribly proud of that at all, but needs must and all that. He'll try to return it, probably, if he gets the chance.

(He knows he probably won't get the chance, but intentions matter.)

He's wondering what the smart next move would be - what would Hermione do - when he all but collides with someone else. He jumps back, barely resisting the urge to reach for his wand. Instead he starts to reach for whatever it is that's tumbled onto the ground, stopped by that warning. The tone annoys him; the voice out and out terrifies him.]

What's it, cursed? [He is trying very, very hard not to sound as panicked as he feels.]

Yes.

( There is a faint hint of amusement in her voice, and she looks him up and down, calculating, noting pale, freckled skin, and the cap that conceals most of his hair. The colour isn't so easily told in the half-light. Her eyes narrow: Quidditch isn't a point of interest to her at all, but even she would know a London-based team, ergo, his cap isn't merchandise related to a magical sport. It's a blessing and a curse in one, for him: clearly, whoever he is, he isn't Pure. Or at least not the kind of Pure she would willingly spend time with. She can tell he is scared, it's a sensation that has her heart skip a beat –– but she doesn't necessarily see it as something directed at her. Most people are a little put out by very nearly having come in touch with a fatally cursed artefact.

The flicker is gone as quickly as it came. Evening it may be, but they are rather in public – and while it doesn't take much to coax some good old racism out of Bellatrix, she does, at least, make an attempt. The smile she gives him is perfect and cold and polite, and she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear before she reaches for her wand. )

And I am afraid breaking it so soon could do damage to the manuscript.

( She sounds pensive, almost affectionate. It is a rather nice bit of magic, after all. Either way, she flicks her wand, and the book, and its protective sheet of cloth, rise for her to inspect. ) You ought to watch where you are going. This could have been... fatal.

[The smile makes him wary, but when she reaches for her wand he feels cold all the way down to his toes. There's a responsive twitch in his fingers, a defensive thought that makes it past whatever wall of logic and reason he's clinging to: he doesn't reach for his wand when she does, but it's nearer than it should be.

It's also a near thing that keeps him from snapping at her about watching where she's going, but Ron bites his tongue better on that one. Two thoughts occur to him: that he should bloody well get the hell out of her presence, and that he ought to learn what he can while he's here. The real question is how to do that without giving himself away.]

Sorry, [he says, and doesn't even choke on the apology.] Wasn't paying attention, I guess. Lucky me it was wrapped well, innit?

( Bellatrix, being a Death Eater, is very finely attuned to these twitches, largely because all it really takes to die is miss one. Bellatrix, being a ministry witch, has a fairly innocuous explanation, too: people get all sorts of jumpy if you inform them that their particular Magical Accident has legal consequences. In either case, it takes remarkable self-control for her to not tense up, and she manages it just fine ––

except it's in her eyes, alright. For a moment, bright and alert switches to focused and potentially deadly, before it's gone again and she resumes, like she never saw the twitch at all: )

Incredibly so. ( She hugs the book, apparently declared safe again, to herself, and very deliberately returns her wand to its sheath. ) May I ask your name?

[It doesn't matter if she doesn't have the ridiculous hair, or the twitchy, peaky look about her: Bellatrix is still a frightening woman. Ron doesn't try to hold her gaze, looking instead at the ground like he's making sure nothing else was dropped. If he apparates away, it would be pretty suspicious, wouldn't it?]

Huh?

[fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff--]

Oh, my - yeah, sorry. [He shakes his head, laughs in a way that he hopes is more self-depreciating than nervous. Get it together Ronald, Merlin.]

It's er - Lee. [DON'T SAY JORDAN] What're you doing with a cursed book? [It is a book right, it looks mostly book shaped.]

( He gets the question in before she can make a judgment call regarding the now-present question of whether he is dishonest or just genuinely nervous for no legally-compromising reason. And it is quite a loaded one, even if the way he asks it doesn't suggest so. So, time to change strategies. )

Studying.

( Her tone is cold and dead-pan, before she turns her eyes down, laughs, shakes her head. ) My apologies, I could not have made this sound any more menacing if I tried.

( When she meets his eyes again, some of her haughty air is gone – well, forcibly held back, but she mostly makes it work. Or could make it work, if she wasn't unwittingly talking to someone who knows better than she does how far down into the abyss she is willing to go. ) My name is Bellatrix Black, I work for the D.M.A.C., and we do really need to know our way around these matters, lest we find ourselves faced with something we can't reverse.

[Well, why wouldn't Bellatrix Black be studying a cursed book? Makes perfect sense, only Ron wishes it wouldn't, but it does because it's Bellatrix bloody Black, isn't it? Well, he can't keep focusing on that, otherwise - well, this Bellatrix doesn't seem too likely to kill him in the middle of Diagon Alley, that's a bit of a blessing. Now he'll just have to watch his back all the time everywhere.

It's a damn shame 12 Grimmauld Place is probably still in use. He could really use someplace to call a home base, right now. (The Burrow pops into mind immediately, of course, but he has to push it away: the prospect of putting his family in danger, when so few of them are able to defend themselves, is just unbearable.)]

Oh, [he wheezes it out with a weak laugh, manages a nervous smile. It's perfectly fine to be nervous after that, isn't it? Probably what she was going for, he reasons. He hopes.]

Blimey, you were a bit terrifying. [Maybe that'll stroke her ego enough to start easing off.] The D.M.A.C. - Merlin, now I'm really sorry I got in your way. I'm sure you've got more important stuff to worry about than some bloke knocking into your book.

( Older and more desperate wizards have tried this route with her, but she really doesn't have much reason to keep him, not unless she wants to look every bit as odd as him. )

I have been told that.

( There's something about affirming the fact that people call you terrifying that automatically negates a friendly tone, no matter how well-practiced. )

Be more careful, next time. ( And then, like an afterthought, except not at all: ) I'm sorry, Lee, I didn't catch your surname.

( He must be muggleborn, or at least half-, right? There are registries for that. )

[I bet, he thinks, except it's not as brave in his head as he'd like it to sound. She's not as terrifying as the first time he met her, in the Department of Mysteries, but - well, it's a different kind of scary, isn't it? Feels more like she can trap him, this way, and given the state of things, that's a lot scarier than a raving lunatic.]

I will, yeah. Sorry again-- [his surname, bloody hell, fuck shit not Jordan fuck fuck fuck--

Ron smiles, self-depreciating again. It's weird, putting that on for a stranger.]

Don't think I gave it. [FUCK SHIT FUCK WHO DID HE GO TO SCHOOL WITH--] It's MacDougal.

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