Snow fluttered to the ground around the two men hunched over as they
hurriedly smoked, finishing one cigarette then fishing another from beneath
their cloaks and lighting up again, as if the brief glare and cold could
protect them from the cold that surrounded them.
"We're absolutely fucked. You know that, don't you?" "Not fucked exactly," remarked his companion "just doomed to castration at the hands of some faceless Death Eater while the Dark Lord cackles and drools on himself in the background." He flicked the butt of his spent cigarette into the swirling maelstrom that surrounded them and fumbled with cold hands for another. "You're right, though," he continues "Bakerhoff is a fool! A genial fool, but he must be the worst wizard in history. Hester's dog would have been a better wizard, and Hester's was famously blind, epileptic and frequently drunk. You never knew Hester, did you? A good Auror, but he fell out of a tree and drowned in a river at Hastings after drinking two quarts of sherry, God rest his soul. The poor dog was inconsolable and had to be shot. The unmentionables did the deed with a full firing party and the entire ministry turned out for the burial."
His companion, who had stopped listening some time ago to console himself to the lonely task of ridding the entirety of Northern Europe of cigarettes, spoke again. "What was it Keats wrote? 'Pity have these not traced upon vellum or wild Indian leaf, the shadows of melodies utterance'"
What has that got to do with Hester's dog?"
"Absolutely nothing to do with Hester's dog, or, for that matter, the startling inadequacies of Bakerhoff. Come on, smoking our young bodies into ruin won't help us. We'll have plenty of time for that later."
With that, they turned and went back inside. To go light a hot fire and not think about what was headed their way. Because they were in Copenhagen, it was winter, and the Death Eaters were getting closer.
"We're absolutely fucked. You know that, don't you?" "Not fucked exactly," remarked his companion "just doomed to castration at the hands of some faceless Death Eater while the Dark Lord cackles and drools on himself in the background." He flicked the butt of his spent cigarette into the swirling maelstrom that surrounded them and fumbled with cold hands for another. "You're right, though," he continues "Bakerhoff is a fool! A genial fool, but he must be the worst wizard in history. Hester's dog would have been a better wizard, and Hester's was famously blind, epileptic and frequently drunk. You never knew Hester, did you? A good Auror, but he fell out of a tree and drowned in a river at Hastings after drinking two quarts of sherry, God rest his soul. The poor dog was inconsolable and had to be shot. The unmentionables did the deed with a full firing party and the entire ministry turned out for the burial."
His companion, who had stopped listening some time ago to console himself to the lonely task of ridding the entirety of Northern Europe of cigarettes, spoke again. "What was it Keats wrote? 'Pity have these not traced upon vellum or wild Indian leaf, the shadows of melodies utterance'"
What has that got to do with Hester's dog?"
"Absolutely nothing to do with Hester's dog, or, for that matter, the startling inadequacies of Bakerhoff. Come on, smoking our young bodies into ruin won't help us. We'll have plenty of time for that later."
With that, they turned and went back inside. To go light a hot fire and not think about what was headed their way. Because they were in Copenhagen, it was winter, and the Death Eaters were getting closer.