Post by Deleted on Feb 1, 2013 12:31:48 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px] WHAT IF THIS DOES NOT BELONG TO YOU and all the things you thought were true were someone elses lies [/style][style=background-color: 1b1b1b; width: 200px; height: 300px; float: right; border: 0px solid #0e0e0e; padding: 8px; color: 454545; overflow: auto; text-align: justify; font-family: arial]If Vincent Sixsmith was anything it was a man who knew how to read. Big books, small books, any genre, any style, he would happily plant his nose inside. As a teenager he had read and reread all the muggle greats Nabokov and Dostoyevsky, Wells and Orwell. His favourites remained Ernest Hemmingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald after so many years still harbouring a romanticised view of cobblestone streets in Paris. Drinking coffee in bijou cafes, nights spent in dingy blues clubs, slowly working away at a novel. The adult in him knew such a life in Paris, a busy and often pompous tourist trap was a dream, but Sixsmith was rather fond of dreaming. He’d already decided, ever a fantasist then when it came to retiring from his career as a healer with St. Mungo’s he would settled in his old age by the sea, opening a small quaint little bookshop piled from floor to ceiling with novels of all varieties, so days could be spent exploring through the spines. He had seen much of the world travelling as a boy with his father here to there for business or pleasure, but so much of the wizarding world continued to elude him. One day he assured himself, one day far away from this war. With a soft pop Vincent appeared on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley. Despite the many endless hours that had been spent here since receiving his first Hogwarts letter the high arching shops, the fashions of those who passed, magic conducted openly and freely still sent a shock of excitable delight through him. He gave little time to the thought that as a muggleborn, a muggleborn no less whose muggle father was succeeding rather well at making himself a name in the wizarding world’s business empire, as a muggleborn who had been less then silent in papers and articles submitted to the profit disparaging the discrimination in the wizarding world. that walking so openly could well be asking for trouble. But Vincent was not the type of young man to see a threat in every shadow, nor to truly have even pondered the fact that he may well eventually become a target in this war. Perhaps somewhat naively his world was far from one of paranoia. His first stop was Gringott’s, a pocket full of galleons acquired for the afternoon and hastily shoved into dark blue jeans. The next stop remained one of his favourite places in the entire world. Flourish and Blotts. He’d stepped in here for the first time at merely eleven and his jaw had hit the floor. With the practice of a man who had spent far to much time in this one shop he made his way past the pristine new books with their shiny covers to the dusty tomes hidden away in the corners. Old books, mostly cashed in by their previous owners, full of that aged musty well read smell that he adored almost as much as the fresh opening of a new book. Sixsmith had a thing for antiques, old relics of bygone eras. His free time was often spent rummaging through what shops filled with what most people would consider ‘tat’, but hidden amongst the discarded there were often one or two items of wonder. Wizarding history especially had become quite a passion of his during Hogwarts. One that had proven far darker then he would have ever believed at first. He emerged some time later, three books tucked under his arm of three very different subjects, one concerning the creation and progression of the now succeeded wizards council, what looked a potentially brilliantly silly bit of murder mystery fiction set in the streets of Knockturn Alley and a final small tattered tome documenting a wizards diary and his travels through the muggle and wizarding worlds in the late 18th century. The book worm quite contented with his somewhat all over the place choices. Finally Sixsmith headed to the Leaky Cauldron with the full intent of enjoying one his rare days off with a pint, a seat near a window to listen to the patter of rain while tucking into his new purchases. Since the most recent attack on Hogsmeade days off were few and far between, every hand required on deck and Vincent had never been the type to shrug away from responsibility, gladly signing himself on for every additional hour it would safe for him to be working and not sleeping. Finally the mandatory day off had been granted and there was little he could do about it but accept. He couldn’t deny being away from the hospital and the so many daily witnessed horrors, able to see normal people, normal lives continuing against everything had been far more needed then he had expected. The pub was surprisingly busy. Friends and colleagues hunched over tables with lunch and intense conversation. The amount of laughter and merriment he associated with this place had certainly diminished as the war grew ever darker, but there was still such a welcome sense of normality to be found with people meeting and attempting to enjoy themselves while they could. Getting a seat was looking increasingly unlikely, but Vincent refused to be daunted, balancing his books under his arm and collecting a tankard of mulled mead to chase away the late January cold. Grey eyes glanced the length of the bar for a moment before falling on another solitary person, sat at a table alone next to the window. “Um sorry to disturb you.” He interrupted lightly; warm if somewhat bashful tones filled with a soft Irish brogue. “Would you mind if I had a seat? Everywhere else is full. I’ll be quiet as a mouse – scouts honour!” [style=letter-spacing: 2px; border-bottom: 2px solid; padding: 2px] 956 | OPEN | COMPLETE someone come out and play! [/style] |
table made by MADAME MARIANNA of CAUTION 2.0