Post by Deleted on May 15, 2014 13:30:17 GMT -8
“ THE DROPS OF RAIN MAKE A HOLE IN THE STONE not by violence but by oft falling ”
| Lucretius
| Lucretius
It was a most disagreeable evening. Rain poured by the bucketfuls from the sky. Rivulets ran between the cobblestones. The whole of Diagon Alley was inundated by a sudden March storm. On a pleasanter Friday night, the streets would have been bustling with shoppers. Ministry workers, celebrating their freedom; mothers getting a head start on the weekend errands; fashionable young people parading around the streets, but tonight even the peddlers were missing. The soggy weather had driven them all away. A dedicated few would likely be found in the pubs or restaurants, where they might bemoan the climate in unison, but most people had appeared to rush straight home. From the dry interior of his shop, Mr. Ollivander watched the rain cascading down his windowpanes. The streetlamps melted down the glass in little streams.
He concluded there was not much point staying open the extra hour. It was unlikely anyone would come bursting in, out of the rain, to buy a wand. He made the requisite circuit of his cramped shop to check that his stock was all in order. Once that was confirmed, he doused the candles with a flick of his wand and exited onto the street. With a complicated gesture, the door was locked behind him (a somewhat more advanced locking spell than the norm). Unfortunately, while his livelihood was secured against thieves, his person was not safe from the weather. The front of his shop offered no shelter from the downpour. Worse than that, he had neglected to bring an umbrella with him. The morning had been so sunny, that he had not even considered taking one with him to work. That overconfidence in mother nature now left him at her mercy.
Within a matter of minutes, he was soaked to the bone. Ollivander was almost tempted to apparate home, but that would have been ridiculous. His house was five minutes walk from the store, and (truth be told) he had never taken to apparition as means of travel. The sensation of squeezing oneself through space was one that he found physically unsettling. Whenever possible, he preferred the locomotion of his legs (though rainstorms like this strengthened the argument for magical transport). If he had been a man of thirty, he might have sprinted the distance. At seventy, however, he was reduced to holding a soggy copy of the Daily Prophet above his head as he walked. Garrick found himself wishing for a pretty, young woman whose umbrella he might share... Though if such an angel appeared at his rescue, his destination might have to change. With his wife lurking inside, it would be most unwise to arrive at his door huddled next to another woman. No, he would have to make his peace with becoming drenched and the possibility that his favorite suit might be ruined.
He concluded there was not much point staying open the extra hour. It was unlikely anyone would come bursting in, out of the rain, to buy a wand. He made the requisite circuit of his cramped shop to check that his stock was all in order. Once that was confirmed, he doused the candles with a flick of his wand and exited onto the street. With a complicated gesture, the door was locked behind him (a somewhat more advanced locking spell than the norm). Unfortunately, while his livelihood was secured against thieves, his person was not safe from the weather. The front of his shop offered no shelter from the downpour. Worse than that, he had neglected to bring an umbrella with him. The morning had been so sunny, that he had not even considered taking one with him to work. That overconfidence in mother nature now left him at her mercy.
Within a matter of minutes, he was soaked to the bone. Ollivander was almost tempted to apparate home, but that would have been ridiculous. His house was five minutes walk from the store, and (truth be told) he had never taken to apparition as means of travel. The sensation of squeezing oneself through space was one that he found physically unsettling. Whenever possible, he preferred the locomotion of his legs (though rainstorms like this strengthened the argument for magical transport). If he had been a man of thirty, he might have sprinted the distance. At seventy, however, he was reduced to holding a soggy copy of the Daily Prophet above his head as he walked. Garrick found himself wishing for a pretty, young woman whose umbrella he might share... Though if such an angel appeared at his rescue, his destination might have to change. With his wife lurking inside, it would be most unwise to arrive at his door huddled next to another woman. No, he would have to make his peace with becoming drenched and the possibility that his favorite suit might be ruined.
