These days she found it harder and harder to write as she used to. Her schedule at St. Mungo’s was grueling and when she did manage to carve out time to herself she felt heavy with fatigue, as if she was a stone sinking deep into an endless dark water. She found it difficult to concentrate on the words she was writing down, and would often lose her train of thought. This was one of those times, she had gone to her favorite cafe during her break, determined to write down her thoughts but she had barely gotten a few sentences out before something on the street had distracted her and she was lost. 

Her attention was pulled away from the world outside when she heard the chime of the bell at the door and she was greeted by a familiar face. “Hello,” She said, waving them over with a smile. “Would you like to join me? I have enough tea for the both of us.”

          The table the blonde was sat at for coffee had quickly been covered with colours and fabrics samples — Some, plain and stark against the white marble tables of the fancy ( elitist ) café on Charing Cross Road ( just a stone’s throw away from Diagon Alley, but quieter than the buzzing and common main wizarding street and Narcissa’s favourite refuge close to the Ministry ). . Other samples seemed embroidered or painted with intricate designs and even more intricate moving patterns. If the light of the café caught them just right, the movement of the curves on some of the fabrics glistened like liquid gold. 

         The blonde should have left her redecorating adventures for when she had appareled back home, but she had a loft in Paris to completely remodel and a fundraiser she was in the process of helping plan and between all of this, her lunch with the junior undersecretary for the Minister and her appointment with the designer who had provided her with the options displayed in front of her two weeks ago, Narcissa had not had the time to even think about appareling back to the family’s estate and away from the pull and tug of the city. ( London was convenient enough, but it was not Paris, and certainly also lacked the charm of the English countryside or seaside during the summer months. She failed to see how her Aunt and Uncle would have willingly chosen to be cooped up in an attached house in Islington ). For the next hour and a half, this table was therefore as good as her office. 

         Hand reached out for her cup of tea as her eyes finally gazed away from the sample and onto the now surprisingly packed café, to finally stop on the person in front of her. « I’m afraid this table is taken. » The two free chairs around the round table weren’t, but this seemed a mere detail compared to the samples taking over the surface of the table. « Unless, of course, you were asking something else. »

Amelia didn’t intend to end up at The Leaky Cauldron, but then again, when did she ever? She had quickly changed out of her work clothes before leaving the Ministry, and her wandering through London just so happened to lead her to the magical inn. She entered and looked around, it wasn’t quite busy yet but had a fair amount of witches and wizards, and that was typically the pub atmosphere Amelia prefered. She walked right up to the bar, setting her bag down next to her stool of choice, and glanced at the person sitting near. “I’ll have whatever they’re having.” 

The feeling of anxiety spent the majority of his workday spiraling in the back of his mind. One of the cases that needed a muggle explanation for a magical catastrophe hadn’t been far from the town his parents lived in. A cursed object had fallen into the hands of an elderly couple and neither of them survived the experience. He felt sick to his stomach reading about it and couldn’t stop questioning what would have happened if his mother or one of his brothers had brought the cursed item home.

Millie sat hunched over and pushed her glasses back against the bridge of her nose while she read, ignoring the tray of food in front of her. She had to take a later lunch that day. That meant accepting the unfortunate fate of not being able to eat with her husband. Days where their schedules didn’t match up always left her at a loss for what to do since she preferred Caradoc’s company over anyone else’s.

Location: Quidditch World Cup Quarter Final // Brazil vs. Wales

Some people would say the shirt had started it. Others would say it was the gossip-mongering Rita Skeeter still managed to drive. Whether it was an out of context comment or not, Gwen had heard her team bad-mouthed and she wasn’t about to sit idly by. There was the ICWQC ban on managerial trash talk, but when had little things like authority ever managed to stop Gwenog Jones. 

She’d removed the Haiti shirt, missed three fouls - which she would at least admit were fouls, eventually - and glared down the Brazilian team’s manager. For two awful hours and eleven excruciating minutes. She’d seen Silva catch the snitch in her mind’s eye seconds before he actually did it. It was a beautiful dive. The welsh seeker couldn’t have done it. So, perhaps, it was the guilty feeling created by her own doubt, combined with the crushing feeling of defeat, that made her see red when José Barboza made his sexist little comment and she punched him in the face before pulling her wand on him and his subsequently bloody nose. 

November 1981

Rodolphus knew what the trial would bring. It was only the Lestrange familial wealth that had him free of the holding cells at the Ministry. But all the gold in his vault was not going to be able to keep him free for too much longer. He was going to Azkaban.

Bellatrix believed The Dark Lord would return, but he was less optimistic. They'd thrown in their lot with the losing side... and defeated in this war, all was lost. Rodolphus did not regret it. He believed in the duty and responsibility of the pureblood families to wizarding society. He believed in all they had fought for. The likes of the Lestranges, Malfoys, and Blacks--they were to be paragons in defense of tradition.