Magical Hogwarts

every word you said hangs like an unfinished--

--rhyme

the leaky cauldron, april 11th, 2005, early evening

This has to go well.

Her previous encounters were weighing heavily on Cordelia’s mind today, the focus on the battle, the tiring repetition of therapy and battle and therapy again, over and over until she was ready to scream at the next reporter to come to her to READ THE DAMN BOOK and, likely, get herself hauled off to Azkaban for physical assault.

Today had to go well.

It's been going okay, she thought. No one interrupted her reading, and in fact she had gotten compliments on her oration (from a small wizard who was clearly tipsy halfway through his first beer). The selection (specifically not about the battle, thank you very much Kyle and Parvati!) had created the ideal balance of hushed tension and deep, tangible discomfort among the older people in the crowd, which was the goal.

Now, with the crowd beginning to disperse into the rest of the pub for the promised free snacks and one (1) free beer, Cordelia retreated to her table -- far too central in the pub for her comfort -- to confer with her best friends. "Please tell me this is for me," she said, reaching for the one non-beer beverage on the table without particular concern for whether it was good or even hers. She slammed it back, swallowed deeply, and wiped the back of her mouth in an most unladylike fashion before smoothing down the courderoy of her forest green skirt. "Right," she said, adjusting her blouse and the pocketwatch on a chain that ran under the collar. "How much time d'you reckon I got before someone asks questions?"

Very little, as it turned out -- Cordelia forced herself to smile again when she turned toward the person drifting towards her table. "Thank you so much for coming," she said in perfect received pronunciation and not the West Country accent from a moment ago. "How are you?"



ooc notes:

open thread for the plot mentioned in this months prophet, please feel free to jump in regardless of whether you are Among the people tagged at the bottom of this post or not (tagged characters of ppl who have Told Me They Were Interested).

set tl;dr -- Cordelia has just finished reading from part of her book, there is snacks and and drink tickets (1 beer!) and cordelia is Mingling Poorly.

If you are interested in being part of the Organized Objection to the event, please let me know! it would be great if your character's entrance could be part of the specific interruption

@Ariana Laurier @Camm Erskine  @Edith Holthouse @Hermione Granger-Weasley @DJ Conway + assorted Taed Characters, @Michael Corner 

The Ollivanders were, of course, a prominent family in the British wizarding world (and even other countries), in spite of no longer being a pureblood family. So Garrick and Korrine had done their share of mingling over the years, both before and after the Second War, and heard many stories from other people about their experience under the Dark Lord's regime. An experience that, no matter what suffering or advantage it included, was completely different from Garrick's experience in the basement of Malfoy Manor for nearly the entire conflict.

Published stories were more polished, however, and when The Children's War had come out authored by Miss Cordelia Leighton (owner of a rowan and unicorn hair wand created by his father almost 80 years ago, as springy and resilient as Cordelia had apparently turned out to be), Garrick had been so intrigued he'd ordered one of the first copies to come off of the shelf. It was a fair example of autobiographical fiction, many names except for those of the Dark Lord and brave Mr. Potter clearly changed for anonymity's sake. It was also... biased, he might politely say. And within reason, he supposed, but he also certainly understood why the Prophet had reported such uproar over it.

Yet, without details about what specifically was so controversial, he'd determined to attend the book reading at the Leaky Cauldron today. Korrine had intended to join but Lesleigh was having a bit of a relapse and so her mother was staying home with her - in an emergency their home (above the shop) was a brief minute's run or a brief second's Apparition from the pub. The reading had gone well enough, a passage more about the awkward state of living in what was, in all but spoken word, a Death Eater-run fascist Ministry regime. The prose was captivating and Cordelia's reading voice fine if a bit affected, and as Garrick scanned the room he caught the discomfited expressions and gestures of some of his peers. He supposed to sell well, a book had to be a bit incommodious to some of its audience.

Afterward, the listening crowd split up amongst the day-drinkers (well it was now evening-time he realised), the smaller gossip units, and the early diners. Garrick made his way carefully toward Miss Leighton herself, leaning as little on his cane as possible but still clearly bearing the signs of physical and mental torture from his own memories of that time. "Pish, you're quite welcome Miss Leighton," he brushed off her thanks as she greeted him. "It's, uh, been educational, and therapeutic in a way I suppose, to hear and read other people's experiences during those dreadful years."

Cordelia's question was weightier than she knew, of course, but he answered, "I'm well, thank you. A bit less agile than I used to be, but my hands are still as steady and my mind just as sharp as ever. Forgive me if I, take a seat again," he said as he allowed his bad leg some respite via a nearby chair. "I have just one question, Miss Leighton, though it's a heavy one. I've heard grumblings from some of your readers, but never anything concrete or specific. Or at least not in my earshot. Why do you think you've acquired such opposition? I mean, what passages in particular create their conflict?" He had his own suspicions, of course, but wanted to hear it right from the author's mouth.