SEA, SWALLOW ME, remus lupin

aon, brand new person

CHAPTER ONE
brand new person

                           𖦹 ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ˚⋆˚ 𖦹

  "WHAT WERE YOU SAYING, DEAR?"

Cove takes a deep breath. It echoes through the tunnelling phantasmagoria of her bones, reverberating in her chest like a dying symphony on the fringes of a final act. Her cold fingertips stretch out as if searching for the sweetness within herself to carry on with this meeting — so far, this internship has only taught her how fickle being spoken down to can make her manners.

She plasters on a tight-lipped, professional smile and tries to hone into the patience she had once wielded with an iron fist. Her tone is clipped as she clings to those final, wisping dregs of professionalism.

"Well, Mr Howin, I was referring to the issues regarding poachers along the Hebridean coasts," she says in a level tone. "Members of the local colonies don't feel safe going onto land, which is threatening their way of life. They're getting restless after staying in seal form for weeks on end. I'm sure, with your expertise, that you're aware of how dangerous it can be to go so long without changing."

   The words are laden with sarcasm, not that he takes any notice.

The Ministry official before her slouches in his great big office chair, a throne with leather padding and crooked wheels, as he takes a long drag from his flickering cigarette. After the smoke coruscates in his lungs for a few withering seconds, he makes a great show of snubbing it out with a contemplative to-and-fro movement that flexes her last nerve.

While she watches, eyes narrowed, Cove has to sit and wonder whether he believes himself to be some kind of enigma — commanding the suspense and tension in the room — or if he's really just so thick that he has to let her words sink in for that wee while longer.

That was mean. She feels a stab of guilt for thinking it in the first place.

"I see," he replies eventually. "Well, is there anything of note that the poachers have done to endanger these seal folk yet?"

   Nevermind. The guilt ebbs.

Cove's smile diminishes and she prepares to repeat herself. "No, but surely you'd like to keep it that way. As of just now, the beaches aren't safe, sir. These poachers have been spotted with harpoons on the usual resting grounds, trying to hunt Diricrawls and target Hippogriff nesting grounds while they wait."

"By who, exactly?"

She wavers, sucking in a breath.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Who has reported these sightings?"

She can't admit that it was herself. After all, this department is titled the regulation of beasts — not the protection of magical creatures. Cove bites her tongue until her jagged teeth nip through the flesh. If she's treated poorly in this office for being a woman, she can't begin to imagine the treatment she'd receive if they found out she wasn't half-blood so much as a half-breed.

Her heart is pounding in her ears. To her employers and peers at the Ministry, she's no more than a promising young witch who left school with five O's and four E's to her name. Bright eyed and bushy tailed; a polite commuter who has a nice wee cottage near the Stornoway floo flame. They know nothing of her double life amongst the storm stricken waves of The Minch, of the conflict that wages a war in every snick of her bruised ribs. Her injuries and poor health are reduced to mishaps or bad luck — never the transmogrification between two forms. She sweeps herself under the rug and endeavours for insignificance, even if it is easier said than done with all eyes on her.