october 11, 1950
// diagon alley @thaxterwood
here, lucretia is a nondescript, a bystander among many just adjacent to the action, a tendon in the neck that turns the head rather than the head itself. and lucretia being a hare doesn’t know a thing or two about delay, other than it being a hindrance, which is why she hasn’t understood why the entrance at the restaurant has been barricaded by all these people. really, thaxter wood is someone who she should know and should be interested in, but isn’t. be it a careless disregard for sports or an extended leave of ten weeks, lucretia has now looked at him a dozen times, sideways, mirrored, so intently that she’d slightly recognize something about him by way of the reflection of milk glass dinnerware winking at her from inside the restaurant. however, it does not, because she doesn’t care, so she easily relegates him to the role of bus boy, or one of the annoying sort of peddlers that had come into some money after selling necklaces, probity probes and other joke items after the news of the dinner party barreled into wizarding london.
as both a hare and a child of immediacy, her stride takes form as a bird taking flight into turbulence –– soaring effortlessly into the headwind in non-flapping venture. “excuse me, hi ––” she’s cut off by the circumference of a camera that she takes up entirely with one beady eye, bright and unimpressed, and then the corner of her mouth and jaw, each set equally as firm, turns to its owner. “what do you think you’re doing?” and then, rearranging her fur stole, she turns to whatchamacallit: “how much do you want so i can skip the line? and before you ask, i’m well acquainted with the owner.”
