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07 August 2005 @ 12:52 am
"It's weird, you know, to have to crane my neck to look at you now."

Angelina's chocolate ice cream slid down her throat and cooled her all over. She had had a thousand cups of ice cream this summer, but only Florean's managed to give her the sudden sensation of diving into an icy pool of water when she was just sitting underneath the stagnant shade of an umbrella on the Diagon Alley pavement. She smiled into the next spoonful. Nothing like a little bit of brilliance. "I guess," she finally answered Alicia, "but your reaction wasn't nearly as priceless as the Weasley's, I'll tell you that."

"Oh now?" Alicia still looked as tiny as she did last year, curled into a tiny package of herself that looked as if she was balanced precariously in the middle of the chair. Her raspberry-orange-banana cone was still as perfectly round as when they had bought it fifteen minutes ago. "So, what'd they say, then? They did say something, right?" She smirked, snorted. "I mean, I don't think anything could really, honestly render those boys speechless."

ANGIE: Diagon Alley, August 1990Collapse )
06 August 2005 @ 03:35 am
She sat by her daddy's feet and hummed a song while she bounced the Quaffle up and down, up and down, up and down. He didn't seem to mind. Today, he was hanging around the cash register because the shop was filled with kids and the kids didn't need to be told where anything was at because the shop was Quality Quidditch Supplies and any child in that shop that was clueless was, truthfully, probably in their nappies. So, she stayed behind the counter and bounced her Quaffle and it was kind of hollow on the floorboards, but it wasn't like she could hear it over the dull roar of activity within the shop.

Finally, her dad heard. "Alicia." His voice had that tension of I have been patient for far too long and she knew what that meant. There was the first time she had tried to test that at the shop that she could remember and it involved her Quaffle again but that time she dribbled it too high and it crashed into a display broom. She touched her backside instinctively before she stowed the ball underneath her father's stool. Sitting had never quite the same.

ALICIA: Diagon Alley, August 1990Collapse )
05 August 2005 @ 01:51 am
When she woke up that morning, she could feel the condensation on her flesh even before she disentangled herself from the sheets. She rose a hand to brush it away, only to realize belatedly that the sensation was merely the air around her -- heavy, boggish, and laden with water. With a huff (the air on the inside of her lungs felt dry and feathery as it slid out of her mouth and puffed up her nostrils), she forced her toes to grip the old wood on the floor of her room so that she could stand up.

As an ten-but-almost-eleven-year-old, she didn't notice how utterly old-fashioned her room was. It had a very rustic charm to it, one could suppose; the white paint off of her four post bed was peeling, as was the pumpkin-orange stain off of her dresser. She walked over it, folded her fingers over the cool iron knobs, and tugged a bit so she could see what sort of clothing she needed to choose for the day. Her fingers wiggled over the shirts, the shorts, the skirts. A sundress seemed in order. Sometimes, you just needed a healthy breeze, and this was one of those days, when she thought it was rather plausible that if she didn't, she'd end up drowning in her own sweat by midmorning if she chose otherwise.

KATIE: Lincolnshire, July 1990Collapse )