#march3rd

Location: Coffeeshop on Diagon Alley Time: 3rd of March Status: Closed, for @dedalusdigg

Maddy tightened the grip around her virgin cocktail a little tighter, frowned with determination. “For the first month you receive the full profit of what I sell, the second 50% and the third 50% of that, and so on, until we’ve reached zero. By then I should have my own shop anyway. You wouldn’t make any losses, assuming that the more people know about my business, the more people come, the more income I make, so those 50% would in true numbers continuously grow, making you the same amount of money every month.” She’d done the maths by herself, but even Gerry had said it was correct. So she said all this confidently.

But then she had to pause, tried to rapidly go through what she still had to say to make sure it was all safe and sound, and when it was, she went on: “If, however, less people come because no one is interested in my shop, then I’d run out of capital by the end of the three months, which would only be a marginal loss compared to your habitual income generated from that small section of the shop.” Unfortunately, this was the biggest bit based on speculation: she’d never been to Mister Dedalus’ sweets shop, and for all she knew, there was no such thing as a poor-running section there. But she just had to trust that every business had a few ideas that didn’t work as well as others.

Location: Wizarding Theatre, London Time: 3rd of March Status: Closed, for @annalisefawley

Edgar had always seen his job as a duty. It was, in its own way, of importance, and the same way it would be foolish to lower one’s wand in battle, Edgar raised his plume to the paper. Again and again, for years, without thinking, without doubts, without hesitation. His thoughts and opinions were immortalised in print and he thought of it less than the work of an artist, and more the work of a carpenter. His writing was a product requiring to be used, a tool for construction -- its existence alone was of no worth to humanity. And so Edgar had never seen his job as an art either, just worked through the years with the discipline and integrity of a carpenter. 

Nevertheless, he’d always found at least a little joy in it. Theatre was and had always been his passion, and smithing word strings was a delightful past-time. He didn’t hate it, and knew he was lucky to have a profession that he could enjoy. 

Unfortunately, since Ainsley had disappeared from the Order, no, since she’d reappeared in the Daily Prophet’s office, Edgar had lost all pleasure in writing. It was Ainsley, after all, who had gotten him this job at the Daily Prophet, who had realised that his passion could be worth to the Order, that his column was more than just a friendly review section of plays but actually a calling to arms, a silent rebellion. She’d given him the courage to keep going, so now, every line written was only a testimony to how war away even on the best of people.

That hope was perhaps truly just an anglerfish and not really the end of a tunnel? No. Edgar had fought in this war too long to get demoralised now. He knew better than to lose hope, to give in to the gloom. So off he went, pen and paper in his pocket, to the next play.

Life Magazine