When The Hours Stop (Open)

Guest

Mackenzie'd had a plan for how she'd wanted her life to go. The only dream that had ever earned a place in her heart was that of becoming a journalist. From her youngest years, the girl remembered wanting to be the first one to know what was going on in the world. She loved the idea of keeping the wizarding world informed on the happenings of their reality; medical advances, possible threats, anything that would mean something to someone. She'd wanted to be the kind of journalist whose writing would mean something to someone.

Instead, her latest article had been, "Is the Ministry secretly planning to replace wizard employees with house elves?" What rubbish! She wondered who in their right mind would believe something of the sorts. But of course, no-one who read the paper actually read close enough to take any of the contents to heart. Most of the wizards who purchased the Daily Prophet were doing so for the sake of knowing if their favourite Quidditch team was going to the world cup this year. When had her line of work become irrelevant?

For some reason, these thoughts had flooded into her consciousness and taken over the will of her feet. She found herself drawn towards the Junk shop, a place that she'd only ever gone to once before. She remembered the space as being just as broken as the objects inside. The store was a kaleidoscope of objects that no longer seemed to have a purpose, much like herself. They were things that had once known their place. A teapot that no longer had a spout. An arithmancy textbook with half of the pages ripped out. These objects had been misplaced and ignored.

Her eyes moved towards a clock, the minute hand spastically rotating alongside the face whilst the hour hand sit still in its demise. She wondered if this clock had once lived a life worthy of such an antique. Had someone cared for this object? Had they simply thrown it out once it could no longer fill a purpose?

Mackenzie reached for the clock, her pale hands wishing to hold it and share in the uncertainty of their futures. But as she grasped the metal surface, a dozen different baubles fell from the shelves, clattering to the floor in an obnoxious matter.

"Shit," she muttered. Could she do nothing right?

Guest

Savannah woke with a smile on her face, feeling the familiar weight of Blake's arm around her waist and the tickle of his breath on the back of her neck. She stayed in the position for a while, savouring his touch and his presence, everything she missed while they were apart. Moving very slowly, she turned to face him, raising one hand to gently brush the curls of his hair from his face. She kept her palm there, leaning forward to drop kisses on his forehead, his cheek, his nose, and finally his lips.

"Mmm," he murmured, his eyes still closed.

"Good morning," Savannah whispered, her thumb stroking his stubbled cheek. "I'm going into town. Need anything?"

"I do," he said, words mumbled as he stirred a bit more, reaching out to take her hand into his. "I need you, to stay in bed, and not move."

"Not move? Not even if I do this?" she questioned mischievously before moving to press her lips to the base of his throat then on to his chest.

Blake grinned. "Oh, you can move in bed however much you like."

Savannah promptly gave his shin a sharp kick, earning a groan from him. A moment later, he opened his eyes, turning his head so he could look at her and grinned. "If you must leave, a packet of condoms would be helpful."

That earned him another kick to his knee after which Savannah dropped a kiss on his forehead. "I'll see you later, Mason," she said before scooting out of the bed and changing into comfortable jeans and a plain white t-shirt. She slipped on her boots and picked up her bag, exiting the staff quarters and making her way to Diagon Alley in a good mood from the morning. She'd heard there was a junk shop there and she wanted to check it out. Of course, if Blake ever found out - and he was going to somehow - she would never hear the end of it.

She located the shop without any difficulty and as she pushed the door open, she smiled. She was just looking at what seemed like an old journal when the sound of falling items reached her ears. She put down the ancient book and rounded the corner, spotting a young lady with various item scattered on the floor. She seemed familiar and Savannah knew that she'd seen her somewhere before.

"Here, let me help," Savannah said. With a wave of her wand and a few uttered words, the items returned to their original place. Savannah pocket her wand and approached the young woman. "Are you alright?" she asked, concern showing in her tone.

Guest

Mackenzie was taken by surprise when the items that had fallen corrected themselves before she could put them back into their places. She’d been using magic since before she could remember and yet it rarely crossed her mind that messes were better off fixed with a spell than by hand. Her eyes fell back on the clock that had remained smugly in its place. She would allow it to feel safe now, but later it would wish that it had fallen alongside its brethren.

The witch turned to look to her knight in shining denim; a young woman with dark hair who looked somewhat familiar but not to a point where Mackenzie would be able to recall who she was. Then again, every person she saw seemed familiar. Maybe everyone she met was actually the same person simply pretending to be someone else. How odd would that be.

“I am just fantastic,” she told the woman, laughing lightly. “This is what I get for trying to be hip, eh? I guess vintage was never really my decorating style anyways,” she blew a stray lock of dark brown hair out of her face before holding out a hand. For a moment, Mackenzie’s eyes fell to the light blue of her nails. There was a slight section towards her cuticle where her natural nail was making itself known. She’d have to make a mental reminder to get those redone.

“Mackenzie Faucette,” she smiled. “And did I thank you for saving me from that clock? I swear it was out to kill me with its army of antique silverware!” She wasn’t funny, though she thought she was.

((OOC: Sorry this is so short!)))

Guest

Helping came very naturally to Savannah. It was etched into her soul and it flowed through her veins - one of the reasons why she did what she did. She also had an uncanny ability to empathise with people which was why most of the time, she was the one to break news of the death of someone to their family.

Her question was a genuine one - only Merlin knew what could've happened if something heavy fell onto the lady - and she breathed a sigh of relief when she said that she was fantastic. Still, it didn't hurt to be alert. Savannah knew that some people liked to hide their pain. "That's good to hear," was all she said.

She chuckled as the young woman went on to talk about her decorating style. "I'll be the last person to fault you for that," she responded with a grin. "I myself like collecting things and I thought that this shop might have something I could add to my collections." She almost added that if ever Blake found out she was here, she'd never hear the end of it. But she was trained too well to let that slip out.

"Savannah Lopez," she replied, holding her hand out for a shake. She laughed lightly at the joke; it was actually something she thought Blake would say. "You're very welcome. We can't have antique silverware winning the fight now, can we?"

"Mackenzie Faucette," Savannah continued, taking on a thoughtful look and tone. "Isn't that...Aren't you the journalist?" She thought she was familiar. As an Auror, she had to recognise names and faces, remembering them for future use.

[[OOC: No worries! Smile

]]

Guest

Mackenzie laughed lightly at the woman's responses. She was witty, which was something that Mackenzie didn't see often in the people with whom she worked. There really wasn't a high necessity for laughter when writing about very serious things such as what Quidditch team was going to win the cup this year. Thinking back on it, she couldn't remember the last time that she'd laughed with somebody. She didn't really have many friends or any for that matter. It wasn't that she didn't like people. In fact, she loved people. She just never really found herself in situations where she could socialise.

When the woman, Savannah Lopez, posed the question of, "Aren't you the journalist?" Mackenzie nodded. She was the journalist. Not a human being or companion. She was a journalist. Of course, she was flattered by the fact that someone had recognised her for her work, but she'd hoped that for once, her work hadn't followed her.

The thing about being a journalist was that every encounter usually began genuine; laughter and introductions. And then it would continue with, "Aren't you that journalist?" She'd say yes, the other person would smile fakely, and the conversation would end. This was often because people did not want to open themselves in front of someone whom they believe could ruin their reputation. It was easier to smile and avoid than to confront and befriend.

"That does happen to be me," Mackenzie responded, thinking that perhaps this encounter would be different. "Though I have been considering a change in profession," she smiled. This was true. She'd been thinking about looking around for something new, as she found herself finding less joy in journalism as the years went on.

Perhaps she'd teach. It was something that she'd always thought about doing. The job at the Daily Prophet had simply come to her before any teaching position had. She shrugged.

Guest

As Mackenzie responded to her question, Savannah felt the wheels in her brain automatically start working, figuring out what was going on in her mind and reading her body language, what she was trying to say beyond her words. It was something that Savannah had picked up on her many undercover jobs, a vital skill that meant the difference between survival or death, cracking a case or letting a criminal get away.

Her question had been a genuine one, as well as a knee-jerk response to hearing the name, but Savannah had expected a lighting up of the eyes, a proud smile, or at least an excited nod, something to show that she was happy her name had been recognised. When Savannah saw none of that she guessed that she'd touched a sore nerve. She'd wanted to tell Mackenzie that she thought her writing style was really good, but after the response she received, Savannah decided it was better if she didn't dwell on the subject. Her compliment might be taken the wrong way. Instead, she focused on what Mackenzie said next.

"Oh, really?" she responded in surprise. "What profession do you have in mind? If you don't mind me asking of course." Then thinking that she should set her mind at ease, Savannah added, "I myself work as a caretaker at Hogwarts." It wasn't a complete lie; she really work as a caretaker. It just wasn't her true job, but she couldn't reaveal that now, could she? After what happened with the mole and her information leaking out, all her records had been erased - essentially making her non-existent - except for the ones necessary for her work. No one but those who needed to knew her real identity and history.

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» You Can Stop Staring, You Know? (Stephen & Christopher)
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