2
For most people, the gentle swaying motion of the train accompanied by the hypnotic click-clacking sound of the train running on the tracks would lull them into a gentle slumber. Sadly for Cheryll Jones the train was a nightmare come to life as she bent over the porcelain toilet bowl and heaved her guts out.
She had an unfortunate childhood affliction of severe motion sickness that she never grew out of. Her malaise was a source of embarrassment for her and fun for others. She couldn't travel by floo-powder nor could she spend more than 5 minutes being airborne on her broom before getting dizzy. Her father had consulted many medi-wizards on her conditions and despite the brief respite offered by potions, the after-effects were often worse than the illness – she suffered horrible migraines the very next day.
Why oh why did the ministry send them on a mission to a god-forsaken middle of nowhere village by train? Cheryll wailed plaintively in her mind, convinced that she'd never survive the next two hours.
She was in full self-pity mode as she made another desperate attempt to keep her stomach down; her platinum blonde hair was plastered unflatteringly to her sweaty face.
Cheryll hadn't planned on spending the entire trip locked up in the tiny cubicle. In her mind's eye she was dazzling a certain delicious looking purple-eyed male colleague with her beauty, charm and wit. As a matter of fact, she had worn her best robes which hung snugly to her slender figure to impress Irvyn – regrettably for her, she'd only manage to show her face for five minutes before she had to make a run for it. Deep in her misery for a wasted opportunity of spending some alone time with Irvyn, she failed to hear someone knocking on the cubicle door.
On the other side of the said door, Daryl Rivers was not a happy camper. He had been standing there knocking and looking like a fool for almost a quarter of an hour. His face was grim and his lips were set in a thin line. Clearly, annoyance was building up within him with each polite rap.
What on earth is she doing in there? Other than puking, of course. I hope she isn't deliberately ignoring me. For if she does, I seriously do not know whether I can keep myself from strangling her. Daryl grumbled.
In truth, he wasn't very concerned with the welfare of the only female member in their group. He just needed an excuse to get away from Irvyn while he can still keep the frustration from showing plainly on his face. One thing that Daryl detests most is being lied to, and coming from Irvyn, it hurts. After all, they have been best of friends for the past thirteen years and the seemingly lack of trust; on Irvyn's part especially at times like this, is straining their friendship. Doesn't Irvyn realize that all he wanted to do is to help?
Shaking his head from the troubling thoughts, Daryl turned to the matter at hand. Unfortunately, the door to the tiny washroom was still firmly shut and Cheryll has yet to respond to his persistent knocking. He entertained the idea of using magic to unlock the door but he quickly shot it down, since it will be extremely rude and ungentlemanly of him to intrude. Furthermore, it will earn nothing but more hostility from his female colleague. And to why and how the animosity bloomed, Daryl did not know. All he knew was that she was cold to him even from the first time they met at the ministry.
Daryl sighed audibly. Maybe he should change tactics. If knocking cannot get her attention and magic is out of the question, perhaps calling her name might just do the trick.
"Miss Jones? Miss Jones, are you in there? If you are, do come out. Staying in that cramped cubicle will not ease your motion-sickness." He called out but was interrupted by a sharp jab to his side.
He gave a yelp and turned. An old lady stood innocently behind him; an umbrella with a pointy head in hand.
"Excuse me young man," the elderly lady fidgeted a little as she had been holding her bladder since an hour ago and she was getting pissed (pun intended). She had to go! "Does that young lady in there belong to you?" she asked in her most acidic grandmotherly tone. She pulled herself to her full 4' 9" height and glared belligerently at the nice looking young man who was Daryl in front of her, "Look I'm normally very patient but get that young lady out of there or else..!"
Daryl smiled wanly at the old lady in front of him. "As you can see, Madame, I'm trying my best here," he gritted out. Clearly, he was uncomfortable under the cold scrutiny of the beady aged eyes.
He had to think of something to get Miss Jones out of the washroom soon. The elderly woman seems really desperate enough to commit murder! And if only looks could kill, he would be six foot under already. Merlin! How on earth did he manage to land himself in this position was beyond him. He should have known that coming after Miss Jones was a bad idea.
Darn! Screw courtesy. I'll just break open the door. But first, I need to distract this old lady, who is obviously a muggle, Daryl thought to himself.
"Well, I'm not sure if this would work, but it's worth the try," Daryl muttered before exclaiming loudly and pointing outside the window. "Oh my God! Look, isn't that Elvis Presley's private jet plane?"
"Where? Where?" The lady rushed towards the window, immediately scanning the sky to catch a glimpse of the famous muggle singer's private jet.
That's the oldest of all tricks in the book and she fell for it. I wonder if I ought to pity this poor gullible lady or feel amused. Daryl mused while he whipped out his wand, pointed it at the door knob and whispered, "Alohomora."
His face broke into a satisfied smile when he heard the distinct click of the lock. Daryl then quickly deposited his wand back into his pocket. "Miss Jones, I'm coming in to get you out," he warned loudly and without much ado, yanked open the door of the cramped cubicle.
Cheryll screamed loudly when Daryl yanked the door open. How dare he barge in like this! I am not presentable. Cheryll fumed.
"What the hell are you doing barging in here like this!?" the genteel born young lady became a veritable shrew as she struggled mightily to get to her feet; hampered by her bad choice of outfit. If she ever did dislike Daryl before, this incident cemented her absolute hate of him. She hated him for embarrassing her like this, she hated his good looks, she hated his efficiency at his job but most of all she hated him for being Iryvn's friend.
"I'm--going to--" Cheryll threatened before her face suddenly contorted in an expression that could only be described as having your face pulled in all directions simultaneously, "gonna hurl."
Chalk another black mark in Daryl's book for witnessing her expelling her bodily fluid in the most undignified manner with her face hanging over her newest best friend on the accursed train for the past two hours; the toilet bowl.