Grindelwald is bored - and a bored dark wizard is never a good thing.
He's sitting in the main room of the Mansion, idly flicking his wand. The nearby furniture transfigures into random, grotesque animals and back again before they can make so much as a yelp of surprise.
He sighs loudly, signalling his boredom. Any company would be more than welcome
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"Might I ask you to cease that ridiculous transfiguration, sir, if it is not too much trouble?"
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As soon as the words leave Donleavy's mouth, she thinks about her advice. The hypocrisy of the statement maes her smile ever so slightly.
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So, head propped up on arms on the back of the sofa, he watches the different transfigurations and wishes that he could be that good already.
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A moment later, a boy hurries into the room. There are thorns in his hair, and his shirt is torn, and any wizard worth his salt can probably see that he's a ghost, and something more than a ghost; real and not-real, and hungry, hungry, and sad, as he holds out a hand for Owl, and Owl just looks back silently.
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