RP/Owl: A Letter for Lucius
characters: Thorfinn Rowle, Lucius Malfoy
date: 08 December 1999
location: Dublin, Ireland
status: Private
summary: Rowle is intrigued by the latest articles in the Prophet and seeks out more information.
completed: incomplete
Rowle scanned the article for the fourth time, eyes scrapping and clawing between the words, digging for information that wasn't there. Azkaban breakout... Fenrir Greyback still at large... murder count climbing. Ministry refuses further comment.... Phrases and dangerous truths hidden behind tactically written columns. A slow smile spread across Rowle's lips and he carefully folded the paper and placed it in his breast pocket, close to where his heart would have beat if he'd been born with one.
Fenrir was free. And if Rowle remembered anything about the werewolf, and he never forgot a thing, the bloodshed reported in the Prophet was only the beginning. The Ministry was scared, that had to account for something. And all the in-between messages he'd decoded from the article suggested that Fenrir was up to something. ...promises of a speedy arrest... Yes. The Ministry was fearful.
Standing, Rowle finished his cider in a slow pull before leaving the pub. He needed an Owl. He needed more information.
Making his way through the crowded streets of Temple Bar, Rowle contemplated his return to England. He would need transportation. And a wand. The first was simple; his brigade was set to dispatch the next evening from Dublin to Holyhead. From there, he could desert and make his way to Cardiff, catch the bus to London. Rowle was used to Muggle transportation by this point, hateful of its frequent inefficiency but familiar and reliable upon it none the less.
Reaching The Porterhouse, Rowle slowed his walk. He waited until a crowd of drunken American tourists stumbled by on a bar crawl. Even the girls in their high stilettos couldn't hide Rowle but it was enough of a cover for all six and a half feet of him to duck under an archway and pass through a brick wall, vanishing from Temple Bar unnoticed.
Once arrived in wizarding Dublin, Rowle made his way quickly to the nearest post outlet. It was late in the day and there were no other customers, just the hundreds of beady eyes blinking out from their dark cages.
'Excuse me, Sir, may I help you?' came a squeaky little voice, breaking through the soft hooting of the owls. Rowle looked down to find that the voice belonged to a stout little Irishman, no taller than his knees. He smiled plesantly, amused by the keeper's appearance.
'I need to send an Owl to England.'
'Not a problem, Sir, I'll just fetch you one of our larger owls.' The Irishman turned and squeaked off into the darkness, his chubby little legs carrying him with surprising speed.
While he was gone, Rowle looked around the office and helped himself to a piece of parchment and a quill, which he found laying on the desk behind the counter. The quill felt strange after a year of using pens and Rowle had to try several times before getting the motion back in his script.
Dear Mr. Lucius Malfoy,
I expect you have heard the news? I was wondering if you might have any further information, not already known by the general public? Please do not trouble yourself with a response at the moment. It would not reach me. I shall write again soon when I have arrived in England.
Perhaps we could meet and talk over a drink. I daresay I owe you one.
Faithfully,
An old Friend.
Rowle re-read the letter. It would have to do, as he had no way of warding it against prying eyes.
When the Irishman returned with a large, energetic owl, Rowle had folded the letter and addressed it: Mr. Lucius Malfoy, Malfoy Manor - Private.
'Have your owl deliver this to Lucius Malfoy at Malfoy Manor. There will be no reply.'
date: 08 December 1999
location: Dublin, Ireland
status: Private
summary: Rowle is intrigued by the latest articles in the Prophet and seeks out more information.
completed: incomplete
Rowle scanned the article for the fourth time, eyes scrapping and clawing between the words, digging for information that wasn't there. Azkaban breakout... Fenrir Greyback still at large... murder count climbing. Ministry refuses further comment.... Phrases and dangerous truths hidden behind tactically written columns. A slow smile spread across Rowle's lips and he carefully folded the paper and placed it in his breast pocket, close to where his heart would have beat if he'd been born with one.
Fenrir was free. And if Rowle remembered anything about the werewolf, and he never forgot a thing, the bloodshed reported in the Prophet was only the beginning. The Ministry was scared, that had to account for something. And all the in-between messages he'd decoded from the article suggested that Fenrir was up to something. ...promises of a speedy arrest... Yes. The Ministry was fearful.
Standing, Rowle finished his cider in a slow pull before leaving the pub. He needed an Owl. He needed more information.
Making his way through the crowded streets of Temple Bar, Rowle contemplated his return to England. He would need transportation. And a wand. The first was simple; his brigade was set to dispatch the next evening from Dublin to Holyhead. From there, he could desert and make his way to Cardiff, catch the bus to London. Rowle was used to Muggle transportation by this point, hateful of its frequent inefficiency but familiar and reliable upon it none the less.
Reaching The Porterhouse, Rowle slowed his walk. He waited until a crowd of drunken American tourists stumbled by on a bar crawl. Even the girls in their high stilettos couldn't hide Rowle but it was enough of a cover for all six and a half feet of him to duck under an archway and pass through a brick wall, vanishing from Temple Bar unnoticed.
Once arrived in wizarding Dublin, Rowle made his way quickly to the nearest post outlet. It was late in the day and there were no other customers, just the hundreds of beady eyes blinking out from their dark cages.
'Excuse me, Sir, may I help you?' came a squeaky little voice, breaking through the soft hooting of the owls. Rowle looked down to find that the voice belonged to a stout little Irishman, no taller than his knees. He smiled plesantly, amused by the keeper's appearance.
'I need to send an Owl to England.'
'Not a problem, Sir, I'll just fetch you one of our larger owls.' The Irishman turned and squeaked off into the darkness, his chubby little legs carrying him with surprising speed.
While he was gone, Rowle looked around the office and helped himself to a piece of parchment and a quill, which he found laying on the desk behind the counter. The quill felt strange after a year of using pens and Rowle had to try several times before getting the motion back in his script.
Dear Mr. Lucius Malfoy,
I expect you have heard the news? I was wondering if you might have any further information, not already known by the general public? Please do not trouble yourself with a response at the moment. It would not reach me. I shall write again soon when I have arrived in England.
Perhaps we could meet and talk over a drink. I daresay I owe you one.
Faithfully,
An old Friend.
Rowle re-read the letter. It would have to do, as he had no way of warding it against prying eyes.
When the Irishman returned with a large, energetic owl, Rowle had folded the letter and addressed it: Mr. Lucius Malfoy, Malfoy Manor - Private.
'Have your owl deliver this to Lucius Malfoy at Malfoy Manor. There will be no reply.'