paper plain | grey

[Jameson Hera Blishwick]

no care in the world.

feb 2029

THE BACK ROOM ARCHIVES IN THE PROPHET were a downright spook-fest. Jimmie had heard the rumours of green gilled interns being sent down at the witching hour, coming back pale faced and war torn by whatever poltergeist, or unruly spirit  had decided to make an example of them. It was like a rite of passage. Jimmie had avoided this, of course, because she'd already known about the trick long before another journalist tried it on her. She'd been ready for them.

Now, Jimmie ventured back at a far more reasonable time. Picking her way through a great towering of shelves with boxes piled so high they seemed to disappear into an endless, dimly lit ceiling above. The heel of her boots clacked, echoing through the walkaways as she picked her way through narrow a passage, the dust tickling the inside of her nose before she reached the very back of the room, where a row of small, discreet offices could be found. Really, they were glorified store rooms, but if one were lucky enough they may be given their very own key to one of these rooms. Jimmie had not yet been 'lucky' enough, though she thought that if she had climbed the ranks enough to deserve an office, it had better have a real window.

"Knock, Knock!" Jimmie declared herself without laying her fist on the doors wood, opening it up to peer unapologetically around the frame. Inside, a small warm globe of light hovered near a desk that was absolutely stacked with loose leaf parchment. It smelled of old ink and strong black coffee, neither of which Jimmie had a great love for. Behind the desk Grey looked at one with his tools, stooped low, his face obscured by a mess of hair, and scruffy beard. "You look like you're growing into that chair, old man." She told him with a quirk of her brow, crossing the room to slump into the sagging cushions of an old, abandoned armchair that had been dragged in and left for non-existent guests. "Do you live here now, like a boggart in the attic?" She asked him, popping her cherry gum and grinning at him as if he had been invited. 

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The 1600s were a particularly bland time of record keeping when it came to Quidditch. Grey enjoyed the 1800s and 1900s far more, and the modern age of the 21st century above both of those. The real trick to his transcription process that he went through with the ancient scrolls was making sure they didn’t instantly crumble apart when he even dared to look at them the wrong way. A few had done so already over the last few years, and that was that. They were lost to history, never to be read or observed again. He really doubted many cared about this sort of history, he really didn’t either if he was being completely honest, but thousands of boxes of these scrolls took up space within the archives of the Daily Prophet. He had never had allergies to dust before starting on this venture of his, and now he basically couldn’t stop sneezing whenever he delved into the stacks to collect a new box.

Today, he had managed to unfurl a rather long scroll using a handy charm he had picked up recently – a spell that both levitated and dictated the words to him by highlighting them one by one. With a lot of these sheets of paper, the ink had long faded or evaporated, so having the words brighten up as they went was incredibly helpful. His day had been spent with this particular scroll hovering a few inches away from his face as he typed it all out on his Ministry-approved laptop. The real game changer in all of this if he was being completely honest. He never would have attempted doing any of this work if not for the allowance of technology. No sane person would.

Because of his intense focus on his work, he didn’t hear the voice from the other side of his door, or even the door itself opening, until Jimmie had stepped all the way into his office and was already starting to talk to him. Grey blinked a few times up at her as his eyes readjusted from staring into his computer screen. It took a moment for him to realize what was going on and process what she was saying. ”I do sometimes,” he answered before turning back to his keyboard and finishing off the line he was on. There were days where it was so late in the night when he finished what he was working on, that it was easier to recline his chair and sleep here. No point in going all the way home just for a couple hours of sleep.

Pushing the laptop to the side and using his wand to do the same with the levitating scroll, he rubbed at his eyes. ”Its not after midnight again, is it?” he asked, trying to focus on the analog clock that sat directly above Jimmie’s head. He had no idea what it said. His eyes were far too dry to decipher what arm was which on the face of the clock.

Jameson Hera Blishwick ● 504

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[Jameson Hera Blishwick]

no care in the world.

feb 2029

THE HEADY SCENT OF OLD PARCHMENT PAPER and flaky, ancient ink was comforting to Jimmie in small doses. She found that the haven Grey had forged for himself was verging on pleasant the few times she had forced her company upon him. He had really got it made, Jimmie had thought with a secret admiration. Apart from, of course, the haunted stacks of old files and the complete lack of natural light, but that was semantics.

"Yeah, okay," Jimmie scoffed disbelievingly, lounging back in the old armchair and trying not to itch at the obvious smell of stale dust that suffused the leather. She leaned forward as Grey rubbed his eyes and blinked like a strung out owl, pulling a small backpack from her shoulders and setting it into her lap. "Circe, Grey, do you really think I'd be wasting my Friday here at midnight?" Jimmie asked with a raised brow, a slight tension at the corners befitting her slight rising concern for his sanity.

"Maybe this office isn't so good for you." She mused with a pout, uncinching the bags top and reaching into its spelled depths. Her arm disappeared all the way to the elbow before she pulled out two bottles of Bertie's Fizzy Pop!. She tossed one over to Grey without checking he was looking, already reaching back inside for the small bag of premade sandwiches and crisp packets from the Prophet's vending machines. She tossed him the sandwich she least preferred and the crisps she new he liked before setting back into place with a lapful of spoils.

Unscrewing the top on her fizz to sip on it, the flavours changing and morphing on her tongue until they settled on a sour lemon. She screwed up her face as she swallowed. "You're starting to look like some kind of ghoul, you know." Jimmie commented heartlessly. "It's awfully ugly of you." She teased him, licking the sherbet from her top lip. "No wonder you're frightfully single." She added, though she was something of the sort herself. Jimmie didn't much believe in the traditional sort of love, but she liked to taunt Grey regardless. 

grey xavier slater

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