Scenes of Samara, Ongoing

[Samara Raillen]

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Based off the thread New To This

November 07, 2027

Samara stared down at her cat unwaveringly, trying rather intensely to use Legilimency on it. If she could accomplish this, perhaps she could understand why Khaza for some reason did not want Samara to take that leather jacket off the rack.

---

Just that morning, Samara had been about to head out the door with a pulsing headache for her second day on the job. She slid on her shoes, which laced themselves at a tilt of her wand. It was another cold one; she reached up to grab her insolated hooded jacket. Her hand brushed leather. What the-- Samara looked up and stared blankly at the leather jacket before her eyes. She frowned. How did that get there?

"Zeppelin Wynne," she muttered grumpily, taking her own jacket off the rack and pulling it over her arms.

Suddenly she heard a loud, startling yowl and turned around. "Khaza!" she hissed at the cat. "I fed you already!" She turned back and clasped her hand on the leather jacket.

"Merlin's Balls! Owch!" she swore loudly as the cat dug her claws into Sam's calf. Sam dropped her hand to pry the cat off of her leg. "What was that for?" she asked sorely. But as she let go of the jacket, the cat backed off and sat on her haunches, staring innocently up at Samara. The woman frowned at her, then turned back and made to pick up the jacket again. "Stupid cat."

Sharp claws found flesh as Sam felt herself being pierced again in the leg. "Grahh!" she shouted, kicking at the cat, but Khaza determinedly refused to let go. Samara pulled away from the jacket again. Khaza let go of her leg. Samara frowned. Was it the jacket that was triggering this reaction? To test her theory, Samara reached her hand slowly toward the leather jacket. Khaza hissed, her tail frizzing out threateningly. Sam moved her hand away from Zeppelin's jacket and toward one of her own; the cat relaxed and sat down. Zep's jacket: hissing. Sam's jackets: nothing! It was maddening.

"What, you don't want me to touch this? What, is it yours now, or something?" she sneered at the cat. She was in no mood for games today. She pulled one of her jackets off and threw it at Khaza. She was going to bring Zeppelin back his jacket, and she was going to do it now.

Khaza just sidestepped the jacket and meowed plaintively. Samara grabbed another of her jackets and threw it on the ground. Same story. In a fit of frustration, she pulled all her jackets off and threw them at the cat, making to grab the leather jacket during this distraction and run out the door, but the cat was too quick for her, and ten new holes made their way into her calf. Sam immediately put the jacket back, threw the cat off her leg, left the rest of her jackets on the ground, and stormed out the door, letting it slam behind her.

"Bloody cat," she muttered darkly. And without another wasted moment, she disapparated, jacketless.

[Samara Raillen]

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Based upon Sam's history, uses Harry Potter but this scene was never played out with The Vault's Harry Potter. Entirely made up by me! And I didn't really do Harry justice >_<

October 2027

Hospital Visits

1. Patrick

“Sammy!” the small girl burst into the hospital room, holding something round and squishy in her skinny arms and propelled herself all the way to the edge of Samara’s bed, grinning.

Sam smiled as the two adults shuffled inside. “Hey, Hannah,” she greeted the little girl, stroking the top of her head gently. “Hello, Ellen,” she nodded at the woman standing behind her daughter.

“Samara,” she replied cheerily, with a nod of her own. “‘S good to see you again. Crap circumstances though, aren’t they?”

“A bit,” Sam replied. She turned her hazel gaze on her brother. “Pat.”

Patrick stood there, one hand resting on his girlfriend’s back, the other on Hannah’s shoulder. He didn’t smile.

“Sammy, we got this for you!” Hannah said excitedly, propelling the large stuffed thing into the young woman’s arms.

“Ohh, thank you,” Samara said with a laugh, picking up the rotundly fluffy object and holding it up, rotating it in her hands slowly. “Er --”

“It’s a bugbear!” Hannah exclaimed proudly. “Only not one of the blood-sucking ones. Mum said it’d be a good present for you because if you cause any more trouble, it’ll eat you!”

Ellen slapped a hand over Hannah’s mouth and sighed. “I was only cracking a joke,” she said apologetically to Samara.

“No no, it’s good, really, thanks El,” Samara replied, examining the somewhat ferocious looking bared teeth in the stuffed bugbear. “It’ll keep me in check.” She had meant for that to come out as a joke, but she only realized afterward how much darker it had sounded. She set the bugbear carefully beside her and then pushed herself slowly into a better position, being careful not to agitate her leg. She looked over at the family in front of her, her eyes resting on Patrick’s hard brown ones. Sam raised her chin, defiantly holding his gaze. No one spoke.

“Sammy, when you get better are you going to come over and play with me?” Hannah asked, breaking the silence as she grabbed Samara’s hand in her two smaller ones.

“Hannah, why don’t we go find some pudding?” Ellen suggested, scooping her daughter up into her arms. “We’ll be back in a little bit, and then we can keep talking to Sam, okay?”

“Aww, mum! Patrick, can't I stay?”

Samara hastily interjected. “It’s all right, Hannah, bring me back some top-notch pudding, yeah? Only the best tasting kind, so you have to test it first.”

“Erm -- okay!” The girl gave Samara a thumbs up as she and her mother made their way into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind them. Her brother immediately sighed and folded his arms, stepping closer to the bed.

“What were you thinking, Sam?” he finally said, a hint of anger in his tone. “Are you mad? You’re going to Azkaban!” He hissed the last phrase, keeping his words private. “Azkaban, Mara! People go mad in there!” He threw up his hands fiercely.

“I know, all right? I know!” Samara made no attempt to keep her voice calm or quiet. “Don’t you think I understand that? But there’s nothing I can do about it now! And it’s just two years. I’ll be out and everything will be--will be normal, all right?” The truth was, Sam was terrified of Azkaban. For two years, she wouldn’t see the light of day; she wouldn’t know anyone there, and probably wouldn’t want to. There would be officers left and right telling her what to do, when to do it, and how. She would have her life stripped of any freedoms. Dementors would patrol the halls, leaving Sam in a desperate state of loneliness and depression. Oh yes, she knew what she was facing -- and she knew that she would likely not survive the experience. She would snap.

Patrick roared wordlessly, kicking the hospital bed hard. “You idiot! How could you do this to me?”

“To you?!” Samara was getting quite angry now. “Don’t be selfish, Pat! I did nothing to warrant a stay in Azkaban! It was the people I worked for--”

“I’m being selfish? Listen to yourself! Telling me excuses for why you’re going to prison! Well, I’ll tell you right now that they don’t matter! Sam--” he leaned forward and gripped her shoulders fiercely. “I won’t get to see you for-- for two years. And Hannah -- she’ll be 7 by then -- you’ll miss it!” He gripped his eyes shut as several big tears splashed onto the hospital blanket in Sam’s lap. Her eyes widened.

“Pat...” Samara closed her eyes, silent for a long moment. She had been trying not to think about what she’d be missing. She smiled softly; even though she wasn’t his daughter, Patrick loved Hannah with all of his heart. “She doesn’t need a shite influence like me hanging about her anyway.”

With a rather weak attempt at a chuckle, Patrick pulled his arms away slowly, letting them drop to his side. “Have they told you when?” he whispered, serious again.

Sam shook her head. “Once I’ve healed enough to attend trial.” It wasn’t going to be much of a trial; she was guilty of knowingly working for one of the worst crime lords in the country. She hadn’t killed anyone, but she’d made it possible for criminals to have their way with the resources of the country, and in the law’s eyes, it was almost worse. “The healers say it’ll be another week yet before I’ll be allowed out of St. Mungo’s. I’m waiting on an owl from the Ministry.”

Patrick slumped against the wall, gazing sadly at his sister. “Only a week?” he muttered quietly. “That’s hardly any time--” he frowned. “Samara...have they come to see you yet?”

“No,” Samara said flatly, “and I don’t expect them to. Get over it, Pat. They’re not going to come. I’ve broken their hearts too many times.”

“But you’re their daughter!” He growled, clenching his fist. “Their daughter, who they haven’t seen in years, who’s about to get sent to prison!”

“I’m not their daughter!” Sam winced; in her agitation she’d moved too sharply and pain seared through her injured leg. “They have a daughter, and she’s showing herself off in Milan right now. That’s where they are.”

Patrick’s fist hit the wall loudly, but surprisingly he let the topic slide, instead putting his hands back in his pockets and taking a seat on the chair next to the bed. He paused for a moment, then reached over and grabbed his sister’s hand, squeezing it lightly. Sam squeezed it back, closing her eyes and leaning back against the pillows.

“I guess convicts don’t get the comfiest beds,” she joked, opening a eye to glance at Patrick’s face. He gave her a crooked half-smile.

“If they weren’t holding my wand, I would fix it for you.”

“Thought that counts, mate.”

The two of them sat there in near silence for what seemed like ages and yet no time at all, until Samara felt herself slowly slipping off into sleep. Fuzzily she heard the door open.

“We have the pudding! Ohhh,” came Hannah’s little voice just as Patrick shushed her gently. Hannah reduced her voice to a loud whisper. “She is sleeping now? But I wanted to stay and talk some more!”

“She’s healing. She needs to rest so she can get better quicker. How about we come back on Thursday?”

“Okay...”

Sam felt Patrick’s hand slip out of hers, resting itself momentarily on the top of her head, before it pulled away altogether.

“Did you talk to her about it?” Ellen’s anxious voice drifted through the air as they made to leave.

“I tried.”

“Well? Is she scared? Is she worried? Is she doing all right?”

“El, please -- of course she’s scared. Right terrified.” There was a pause. “I think we’d all be. But it’s something different for Sam. She doesn’t do well in a cage.”

“And there’s no other way? Nothing more that the Ministry will do?”

“She broke the law. That’s that.”

“What if she gave them information? People strike deals all the time, don’t they?”

“Babe, she would never do that. And besides, they caught Anton, what more could she really offer them?”

“I thought she might have been known something more --I just don’t--”

“Mommy? Who is putting Sammy in a cage?”

“Nevermind, love. Time to go.” Sam heard the door click shut yet again and she opened her eyes briefly enough to let a few tears fall down her face. She wrapped her arm around the bugbear and rolled her head to the side, falling into a troubled state of sleep full of dark shadows and violence, from which she would later have a hard time waking.



2. Harry Potter

Sam was reading; what else was there to do? She’d managed to get the auror outside the door to lend Samara her copy of Quidditch Monthly, and was now reading an intriguing article about the effect time has on an unused broomstick. She wistfully thought of her own Stardust 1313, a beautifully crafted Beshemin original, gathering dust in her apartment. It had been three days since she’d seen Patrick, and she thought about telling him to take her broom out every once and a while. He was already taking care of her cat, and wasn’t her broomstick just as important?

Sam groaned; boredom was sinking in. She looked around her quarters, taking in the bleak atmosphere. It was dark, the only light emanating from a lamp on her bedside table, casting shadows all around her room in this late hour. There were no other beds in the room; Sam was under confinement, after all. Her only real company was an auror guard, who was posted at the door 24/7. This was something Samara hated with a passion. Like I can just run off, anyway, she thought miserably. Her leg was next to useless. And most of them refused to talk to her, probably thinking it was beneath them to associate with a criminal. Samara shrugged it off; what did she care what they thought, anyway? But being confined to a bed all day got quite dull.

Sam turned the page. She immediately twisted her face into one of disgust. “Awh, come on! You’re giving Shean way too much credit. He wasn’t bumphing, he’s just bad!” Sam watched the replay through a wince as the Wimbourne Wasps beater practically fell off his broom to catch a piece of the bludger that careened straight at the crowd. She scoffed and threw the magazine to the ground. “This is crap, you can take it back if you like,” she grumbled at the auror outside the door.

“The article on page eighty-three isn’t so bad,” replied a voice much deeper and more masculine than that which belonged to the female auror. Samara looked up. Had the guard switched already? The magazine shot back onto her lap from the ground, the page in question staring up at her. The title read, “Potter to Lead Britain to World Cup Victory” in flashing letters. Standing there looking just as arrogant as ever in front of the freshly drafted team, shining in the spotlight, was none other than her old schoolmate, James Potter II. She looked up as a man of average height walked into her bedroom. Samara couldn’t make out the newcomer’s face. She pushed herself up into a better sitting position. The man stopped just outside of the circle of light cast by the lamp.

Sam picked up the magazine and gestured at him with it. “You must be proud of him, Mr. Potter.”

With a small smile, none other than the Head of the Auror Department and savior of the magical world, Harry Potter, stepped forward into the light. “Oh, I’m always proud of James, no matter what sort of antics he gets up to,” he chuckled, sitting in the chair beside the bed and looking at the young woman.

Samara set aside the magazine and scratched the back of her head. “Don’t suppose you’re stll miffed about the flying motorcycle?” she asked, referring to a time many years ago when she and James had taken it for a joyride, sans permission. That was the last time she’d seen Mr. Potter.

“Nah,” he replied with a dismissing wave of his hand, “the scratch came right out. And the bike’s James’s now, officially,” he added with a laugh, “So he can take as many girls on it as he fancies.”

Samara’s hard gaze fell on the older man’s face, studying him. “Why are you here, sir? Just out for an evening stroll at St. Mungo’s and felt like popping in on an injured soon-to-be convict?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Sort of,” Harry replied, a glint in his eyes that Sam couldn’t quite read. “I had a rather late night at the Ministry, or I would have come sooner.” He shifted in his seat, pulling something out of his robe pocket. It was a parchment scroll. He paused before handing it to her, looking at her. “Ms. Raillen, what made you join the Underground in the first place?” he asked. It was a simple question, without judgement, making Sam swallow a nastier retort in her throat.

She looked at her hands, thinking about the best response she could give. She thought about his motivations for asking, but also knew she wanted to defend her choice and stand behind what she said fully. Finally, she she met his gaze.

“I joined because I wanted to live an adventure every day, without rules, without restrictions. I joined because the people I worked with were more family to me than my real family. I joined because nothing makes me feel more worthwhile than being able to protect someone from someone else.” There. She’d said it all. It had tumbled out of her mouth unintentionally, but it was there now and she didn’t take it back.

Harry’s knowing smile grew wider, and he leaned forward, handing her the scroll. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.” He sat back again and folded his arms, watching her silently.

Samara slowly untied the scroll and unrolled it.

Samara Idris Raillen, Case No. 329124

Your case has been evaluated and, in light of the recent influx in official Ministry hearings, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has determined that, upon confession of your crimes against the Wizarding world, you may choose between two years sentence in the wizarding prizon Azkaban, or two years of community service. This community service will be determined according to the severity of your actions, and will be discussed with you in person by an official representative of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. No exceptions or additions can be made to these conditions once they have been decided upon.

If you choose to accept the terms of settlement, your case will be dismissed and in five years' time, you may request to have this incrimination expunged from your record.



Sincerely,

Alandra Madison

Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Ministry of Magic

Samara read it, brow furrowed, then looked up at the man before her. “So you’re the department representative? Am I really supposed to believe that they sent the Harry Potter to negotiate my community service,” she asked bemusedly, “or is this all just a big joke?” Who knew, maybe James got his mischievous side from his father.

Harry Potter shook his head. “It’s all real.” He tapped his finger on the purple letter. “This is your ticket out of Azkaban; to turn your life back around. Are you going to take it?” He looked at her; she felt caught by the scrutiny of his green gaze. She let her eyes travel up to his legendary scar, visible beneath his cleanly trimmed dark hair. If anyone would know about turning one’s life around, it would be this man, who started with nothing...

She narrowed her eyes. “What is it that I would be doing for the next two years? I can think of a few worse things than going to jail for a couple years,” she stated bluntly; of course, she really couldn’t think of anything worse than Azkaban, but she still had a sneaking suspicion that the community service wouldn’t be cleaning up after quidditch matches.

The Man Who Defeated Voldemort pulled out another piece of paper, folded in quarters, and unfolded it. It was a flyer, it appeared -- for Hit Wizards.

“Er,” Sam replied. “Hold on --” She looked back and forth between Harry’s face and the flyer. “You want me to be a Hit Wizard?” From what she knew, the Hit Wizards were a branch of Law Enforcement that only went after the highest threat criminals and sent them to Azkaban. They were a not an investigative force, but one which went in and got the job done. Like a--well, like a hit. It was supposed to be one of the most life-threatening jobs out there (second in rank only to the ludicrous patents testers).

“For two years. At first you’ll be training with the new recruits, but with your skillset from your time with the Underground, we are confident that you can begin doing field work within a few months. You will be doing this until December of 2029. After that...well,” he said with a smile. “It’ll be up to you whether or not you continue serving the country.”

Harry then stood up with a slight groan. “I’m getting old,” he laughed. “Chasing criminals is hard work.” He looked back at her, serious again. “Being a Hit Wizard is not an easy job. There’s little free time, a high occurrence of injury, and you have to follow the law. However,” he added wittily, “it’s a lot more freedom than Azkaban.” He turned away, picking up the magazine as he did so. “Think about it,” he called back over his shoulder. “Someone will come tomorrow for your answer.”

Samara watched the legendary man leave, then laid back on her pillows, resting a hand on her injured leg thoughtfully. She stared at the flyer.

Hit Wizards: Join today!

Fight side-by-side with some of the most skilled duelists and highly-trained hit wizards in the country.

Every day is a life-changing experience. Protect your country; protect your future.

The choice was clear, really. This or Azkaban. She would do it; she would join the Hit Wizards.

But that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it.

[ Click for OOC Comment ]

Hit Wizard graphic borrowed from here

3. Marcus

“All right, now -- easy does it,” the nurse said nervously as the young, brown-haired woman slowly stood up from the edge of her hospital bed. “Don’t put too much weight on it!”

“Oh, pop off, I’m doing fine,” Samara replied gruffly, wincing at the pressure of her stance. She shifted weight to her left leg tentatively, exhaling loudly in preparation.

“Slow steps, Ms. Raillen,” the nurse replied. He reached out to grab her arm and help her along, but she waved him off.

“I’ve got it, thanks.” Samara slowly slid her right foot forward, leaning onto it and easing off of her left. Pain was shooting through her nerves all along her leg, but she ignored it; she had one day left in the hospital and wasn’t about to prolong it by complaining. She limped back onto her left foot, then repeated the process.

The nurse’s eyes widened, and he clapped lightly. “Oh, fantastic! You’re doing wonderfully!” he said cheerfully.

Marcus frowned in the window of the door as he watched his daughter take pained, tentative steps across the room. His mind flashed back to a memory of a time many years ago, a small hazel-eyed baby taking her first steps toward his leg. She’d learned to walk very early -- he had been proud of her. This one’s going to be just as smart as her brother, he would brag to anyone who would listen.

Suddenly, Samara slipped, and reached out to grab the nurse before she fell to the floor. Marcus leaned forward, as if about to run in and help; in his eyes he saw an infant fall onto her face just inches away from his outstretched palm. But he shook his head fervently; this was foolish, simply worn-out memories of something that never really existed between himself and his daughter. His gaze steeled as he pulled his hand away from the door. She was already getting back up, that same resolve in her eyes he’d seen in her as a child learning to walk. Nothing ever could deter his strong-willed child; she’d never needed his help, not even back then.

She wasn’t really his daughter, though. Not anymore. She had broken too many rules, and now even the law. But that wasn’t all she’d broken. She’d broken her mother’s heart, and although he would never admit it, she had broken Marcus’s heart as well.

Marcus had known about her deal with the Ministry -- he was a Department Head at the Ministry himself, and as such, he had authority to learn these sorts of things -- and his face darkened. She should be going to Azkaban, he thought angrily. Perhaps a few years there would finally straighten her out, tame this wild child. He clenched his fist as he heard her swear crudely, having stepped wrong on her leg. She was nothing like himself or her mother. She was rude, insubordinate, thoughtless, careless, crude, wild, lawless, boyish. To the Raillens, Samara was a criminal from the age of four.

And yet...Marcus thought back to the day Samara left the house for good, saying that it was fine by her if she never saw them again. The door slammed in his face and Anita collapsed on the table, sobbing and spilling her tea all over the carpet. Marcus’s chest had hurt quite suddenly, though he didn’t know why, and he never asked himself. Instead, he cleaned up the tea and went back to his morning paper.

The scene of his prudent wife losing her wits like that haunted him whenever he recalled it, which these days was quite frequently. He sighed. Where had he gone wrong? What had he done to deserve such a daughter as this?

It had been two years, and though nobody would have known it, he had missed Samara. She was, after all that was said and done, still his flesh and blood; they would attend a pro quidditch game at least once every three months from the time she was five; now, it seemed, Marcus had lost his taste for the game. He thought, now that she was working for the law, under the ministry even, perhaps he would invite her to a game again. The Falcons; if they were still her favorite team.

Samara was sitting back on her bed, laughing at some joke between herself and the nurse. Suddenly, the nurse looked up and pointed to the door behind which Marcus stood. Samara’s gaze snapped up to him. Marcus took a rapid step back, out of view. He gritted his teeth.

No. Samara was her own person now. She was not his daughter. He turned and headed briskly down the hall. He had paperwork to assign, and he was clearly wasting his time here. She was doing just fine, and that was enough for Marcus.

[Samara Raillen]

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Based off the thread, This Is Why We Fight

Carlotta Shortsmith had seen quite a bit in her time as one of the caretaker staff at St. Mungo’s. After all, she was seventy-three as of last Tuesday, and had been top cleaning witch on the first floor for twenty years now. She’d cleaned nearly every type of bodily fluid from the sheets, scrubbed magical residue off every inch of the walls, repaired all sorts of structural damages, buffed the scuffs out of the floor, and had even found herself in the midst of a couple of backfiring spells over the years. Yes, her time spent there had rewarded her with a great deal of wisdom and people-watching, and she was really very proud of her position.

Working on the first floor meant that Carlotta was there to greet people from all walks of life; while a good amount of visitors came in only to be sat down and evaluated or sent to an alternate floor, there were still those who rushed in unexpectedly, frantic and unsure of what to do. Carlotta would smile at them, and direct them to the welcome witch at the inquiry desk.

She spent a lot of time on the emergency ward, which for obvious reasons could get quite messy; and this is where, most often, she would come across that mysterious branch of Law Enforcement, the Hit Wizards. Those wizardfolk knew how to keep their wits about them; Carlotta enjoyed seeing them in the halls, even during an emergency visit, because she could always count on them to remain calm and reasonable, even if they were being rapidly overtaken by a hex, or couldn’t feel their arms. She knew each of the senior wizards by face at least, and most by name, and would always take the time to say hi if she could.

But that day, Carlotta found herself to be taken by surprise by the person she expected it from the least.

A tall young man appeared in the entryway to the main sitting room, the brunette held securely in his long arms looking rather small in comparison. The Wynne boy, Carlotta thought to herself -- although this was an unusual circumstance for him. Although he himself came in on a rather frequent basis -- Carlotta surmised this was at least in part due to his carefree attitude, which was always apparent in their conversations -- this was completely different. Instead of the casual approaching of a Healer’s Assistant and short, easy explanation of what had happened, which usually included some not-so-subtle flirting if the Assistant was a woman, Carlotta could tell that he had joined the ranks of panicking visitors.

Carlotta waved her wand, and the dust rag she had been levitating to sweep the high window ledge dropped loosely into her hand as Wynne strode past the rows of afflicted witches and wizards, his long legs carrying him quickly to Assistant Clarke. The green-robed man was scribbling notes down on his clipboard several rows away from the cleaning witch, interviewing a woman whose viciously elongated earlobes had been tied together with an Unbreakable Knot. Wynne immediately began to harass the man, loudly; the other patients turned to watch. Carlotta frowned, leaning against the stick of her mop curiously. His face was stricken with urgency, and the pair of them were covered in dirt and blood.

Clarke began to calmly request that he take a seat, but Wynne wasn’t having it. Carlotta could see now that the young woman was deathly pale and unconscious, and started to worry the worst of it.

“...I understand, sir, but you must wait your turn!” Clarke had now raised his voice as well; the waiting room fell quiet, but for the strange noises emanating out of the hodge podge gathering of maladies and jinxes. Carlotta was just about to step in, her heart aching for the man with the pain in his eyes, but right as she had set her mop handle against the wall, a voice in the room spoke up.

“She looks bloody awful.”

Another voice followed suit.

“Yes, certainly you can do something!”

“Yes, help them out already!”

“My earlobes won’t untie themselves!”

“Ar, shut it, yer earlobes ain’t gonner kill yer, are they?

“This little lady is quite a sight worse than you and I are, dear!”

Carlotta’s gaze swept the room, tears springing to her lightly wrinkled eyes, watching the people in the waiting room band together. It was a rare day in those times that one might so selflessly raise one’s voice for the betterment of another, enough to tug the elderly woman’s heartstrings. She smiled, her wrinkled lips a watery curve to match her teary eyes.

Clarke looked around, a dazed look on his face, before he finally straightened his clipboard and turned to Wynne.

“Name?” he asked finally, and the two launched into a hasty conversation before the green-robed worker raised his wand, and gently levitated the limp body out of the arms of her company. Carlotta watched Wynne’s face as it contorted into an anxious reluctance; as if he felt the young woman would be much safer in his arms. He followed the Assistant and his young friend past Carlotta and around the corner to the emergency rooms.

As he passed, Carlotta met his eyes, offering him a smile. Everything is going to be all right now. You’ve done well. Perhaps later she would find him in the waiting room, and she could offer him a cup of hot tea and a cheering charm.

Wynne disappeared around the corner, and Carlotta closed her eyes, still smiling. These were times when she felt a bit of her faith in humanity restore itself.
She just hoped the young lady would make it out all right, for his sake.

“Lottie -- the mop!” exclaimed the welcome witch, causing Carlotta’s eyes to snap back open. The mop had slithered off, leaving a slippery trail which led straight for the woman with the tied earlobes, whose leg the mop promptly began to hump excitedly. The woman screeched and slapped at it.

Carlotta chuckled to herself. Perhaps she would wait just a moment longer before returning the mop to its rightful place at her side.

Just as she returned to her mop bucket, the rampaging mop in hand, two Assistants rounded the corner, talking in hushed voices to each other. As they neared Carlotta, she could hear that they were discussing Wynne.

"The nerve of him! Trying to follow them into the Healing Room, can you imagine?" asked the first.

"As if his presence was going to make the Healers do a better job, or something?" the other replied incredulously. "Nonsense. And a Hit Wizard, at that. He ought to know better."

The two women exchanged haughty glances, picking up clipboards from the desk and heading off to make rounds. Carlotta watched them go, shaking her head. They were young yet; they didn't see what she could see.

And what Carlotta could see was that this particular Hit Wizard had come very close to losing something he'd never thought would be important to him.

[ Click for OOC Comment ]

Special thanks to Mollie for letting me imply her character XD

[Samara Raillen]

[ Click for OOC Comment ]

Samara is 5; Patrick is 10.

Punishment

“Oh, would you look at you!” Samara’s mother grasped her daughter’s face in her hands, examining her purpling eye with distress. Samara pouted as her face was pulled left and then right again.

“It doesn’t hurt!” she proclaimed, figuring that was all that mattered anyway.

“Patrick Aimon, you get back here this instant!” the pregnant woman stood up, her hands on her hips as her oldest child tried to make his getaway. The ten-year-old froze midstep, slowly turning around to face his parents.

“Aw mum, she’s fine, really!” he protested, holding his hands up in front of him. “It’s just a little bruise, and anyway, you should see what Sammy did to him! I bet she broke his nose,” he finished, a hint of pride in his voice.

“Call your sister by her full name, Patrick,” commanded his mother. “And we do not promote that kind of violence in this household!” She turned back to little Samara, gripping her firmly by the shoulders. “You cannot hit people, Samara! It’s not what young ladies do!” She glared at Patrick. “It’s not what young men do, either,” she said sternly.

Samara frowned. She knew that her mother disapproved of them fighting, but she also knew that Patrick wouldn’t be in as much trouble as she was soon to be. And all because he was a boy. Because he had shorter hair than she did, and had to use the toilet standing up. It was dumb, and Sam hated it. She crossed her arms. “I’m a good fighter! And my teacher Miss Nancy said that we should always practice what we’re good at!” she stated firmly, certain that her argument was valid.

Her mother pulled out her wand and made to tap it gently against her daughter's injured eye, but Sam protested loudly, pushing the wand away at the last minute, so that the spell fired at the wall. “Samara Idris! You stop that right now! Marcus, Help me!” Anita hissed at her husband. The man looked sternly down his nose at Samara.

“Samara,” he said in his deep, terrifying voice. “No more fighting. If you cannot learn to control yourself, then no one will ever take you seriously. If you want to be important in the world, you must learn how to contain your anger.” He knelt down in front of her. “Do you understand me?”

Samara squirmed slightly, but then twisted her lips into a frown just as stern as her father’s. She didn’t understand; how would anyone take her seriously if she didn’t stand up for herself? She didn’t speak, only glared at her father evenly.

Marcus stayed there for another long moment, then sighed, rising to his feet again. “You leave me with no choice, Samara.” He picked her up in his large arms; she began to squirm and kick at him.

“Lemme go!” she screamed. But Marcus was undeterred as he carried her out of the foyer and down the hall, into the guest bedroom. He set her down on the bed, where she immediately attempted to roll off and out the open door; but he pulled his wand out and spoke a word Sam had never heard before. Instantly, her body froze and she fell backwards onto the bed, unable to move at all.

“Think now about your self-control, Samara. You cannot understand unless you take the time to think about it. Someone will collect you in an hour.” He turned away, pausing a moment before muttering, “Wild child.”

Tears sprang to her eyes; she tried to shout, to scream, to make any kind of noise. Marcus turned the light off and closed the door, leaving Sam petrified, alone, in the dark.

[Samara Raillen]

[ Click for OOC Comment ]

Based off the thread Words are Clever, Hands are Better.

"Happy Christmas" by Mollie and Keely

“Merlin, mum never really knows when to quit, does she?” Zeppelin shook his head as he turned away from the Christmas tree, every needle of which looked like it had been individually doused with glitter and then stuffed through an ornament much too heavy for it to hold. If it weren’t for a multitude of Yvette’s charms, he was sure that the whole thing would have collapsed by now just from the sheer weight of crap on it.

“I actually thought it was better this year than usual,” June replied with a small shrug, following a step behind Zeppelin to the kitchen, which was surprisingly empty. “Zep, we haven’t even had dinner yet. “ She gave her brother a pointed glance as his hand reached towards the bottle of firewhiskey in the cupboard, and grudgingly Zeppelin dropped his arm and began to search out the child-friendly eggnog instead. He pulled out his wand to summon two glasses, poured the much less satisfyingly alcoholic liquid into both, and then passed one off to June.

“Where’s Mat anyway?” he asked, leaning his elbows forward onto the counter and glancing down the hall for his other best friend.

“With Cris and Lorelai. They’re all discussing Quidditch or something.” Zeppelin watched her rummage through a few drawers around the kitchen until she found the small jar she was looking for, and then grinned to himself as she began to sprinkle cinnamon into her drink, stirring it with her finger. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that she wasn’t eleven years old anymore, and that they were both adults with jobs, lives, responsibilities, weddings. “And Mat’s not going to get drunk with you right now anyway, wait ‘til later.”

“Juju, Mat and I have been getting drunk together every year around Christmas since we were fifteen. What’s gonna change that?” Never let it be said that Zeppelin wasn’t fond of his traditions.

June licked eggnog off of her index finger, answering, “Nothing, idiot, I just said wait until we at least eat first. You guys are going to get kicked out if you’re completely hammered during Christmas Eve dinner.” As much as Zeppelin hated to admit it, she had a good point, and so he stopped scowling into his eggnog and took a drink of it instead. They could break out the firewhiskey later, once the children had gone to bed and his parents had stopped caring; once it was just him and Mat and June, the way he had always liked it best.

“Sam? Oy? Hey!”

Sam was startled out of her thoughts as a handful of dried cranberries pelted her in the face. She scowled. “What?!” she spat, swinging her stool to face her brother. Patrick raised his eyebrow, crossing his arms.

“What is with you? Ever since you got here, you’ve been staring off at nothin’, and then you get all smiley.” Patrick popped a couple of cranberries he’d been stringing together into his mouth, watching her amusedly.

“Smiley? That’s not even a word, Pat. And I haven’t been.” She reached across the counter and picked up a cranberry, chucking it at him in weak retaliation. Patrick laughed and shook his head. His sister could deny it all she wanted, but heknew her too well.

“So what’s new in your world, hm?” June asked, sipping at her drink and selecting a Christmas cookie from one of several plates scattered across the kitchen counter. “How’s the criminal catching?”

“Just as life-threatening as ever. Doesn’t change much.” He reached out and grabbed the sprinkle-covered treat from June’s hand, biting into it before she could stop him. “How’s the traveling? And oh, playing groupie for a famous Quidditch player, how’s that going?” he mocked, grinning through a mouthful of frosting and crumbled cookie.

“It’s just lovely,” she answered, dipping her fingers into her drink and flicking the milky drops at Zeppelin’s face. “How’re all the bars and clubs in London holding up? Still enjoying your frequent patronage?”

Zeppelin wiped eggnog off of his cheek, rolling his eyes at her. Even though he had been out several times in the weeks since, her question made him think of Samara, and the bar fight they had gotten into the first night he’d met her a couple of months ago. And of course, along with that thought came much more recent memories of the brunette Hit Wizard, ones that were harder to ignore. Switching back to the track of June’s original question, Zeppelin said casually, as if it weren’t really an important thing on his mind at all, “There’re some new recruits at work, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “Slept with any of them yet?”

“No.” Zeppelin scowled, and then grudgingly corrected, “Well, I guess, yeah, one of ‘em.”

“Go figure,” June muttered, obviously unsurprised even though she had been joking.

“Ah shut it, it’s not like that.”

“You’ve met someone,” Pat said simply, a grin in his eyes. He watched his sister tense up defensively, just as he’d expected.

“You’re batty.”

“You’re grinnin’ for some reason, aren’t you?”

“I’m not grinning.”

“You are. You did just then. You’re thinking about someone special.” Patrick watched as his girlfriend’s little girl ran into the kitchen, shouting something that wasn’t quite a word. She clambered up on the stool beside Sam and shoved her hand into the bowl of popcorn, stuffing the majority of it into her small mouth eagerly. Patrick shook her head. “Pace yourself, Hannah, or you’ll choke.”

“Then what’s it like?”

Zeppelin paused, not sure what to say, because he wasn’t entirely sure what he had meant in the first place. Whatever June had assumed, it probably was like that, for all he knew. “I dunno, never mind. I didn’t mean anything.”

He shrugged and looked away, hoping to just brush it off. He and June talked about almost everything and always had, but the completely R-rated memory of Sam that was running through his mind at that moment wasn’t exactly helping him think straight, and he knew he definitely wasn’t going to be sharing those details any time soon, especially with his little sister. Hazel eyes and brown hair and bare skin, shoulders and the curve of her hips and her legs wrapped around his waist…

He quickly took a drink of eggnog, swallowing too much and almost choking on it. Thankfully, June didn’t seem to notice. Dumb ass, he thought to himself, grabbing another iced and sprinkled Christmas tree to try and cover his coughing. You shouldn’t have even mentioned it in the first place… now she’s really not gonna let it go… sod…

Samara shook her head with a groan, reaching a hand up to rub the small girl’s back. “You dunno what you’re talking about, Pat. It’s not like that,” she explained irritably.

Patrick smiled knowingly. “What is it like, then?”

Sam smirked up at him. “Just a really...” she paused, her thoughts drifting back to the other night. “...Really, really good shag.”

Patrick’s face twisted. “Awh, come on, Sam -- I dunwanna hear that!”

“What’s a shag?” Hannah asked, halfway through swallowing her mouthful of popcorn. Pat groaned.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he glared at his sister.

Samara smirked, leaning onto her elbows toward the little blonde. “Hannah, d’you like it when your mum and Patrick kiss?” The girl shook her head fervently. Samara grinned. “Well, a shag is like that, only a hundred times more.”

She watched as Hannah’s eyes grew very wide, and then she put her hands over her eyes and shook her head in disbelief. “Yuck! No!” she said, sliding off the stool and hopping to the ground. She ran out of the kitchen.

“Yeah right.” June shook her head just as Zeppelin had predicted, too interested now to let the subject drop. “C’mon, just tell me, this girl – wait, it is a girl, right? Hey, kidding!” She ducked as Zeppelin chucked his cookie at her, laughing as it flew past her head and hit the wall, leaving behind a smear of red and green frosting. “You’re into her, aren’t you?”

Zeppelin gave his sister a withering look, and was about to reply with a firm negative when he thought of a better idea. “Not in the way that you’re thinking,” he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “‘Cause I mean, she is pretty sodding great in bed.” He grinned widely as her nose wrinkled in disgust, thinking that maybe now she’d leave it alone. But for some reason, it didn’t seem like she believed him, because she was quick with yet another comeback.

“You can lie to everyone else Zep, but I can always tell. Why didn’t you bring her?”

Because no matter what you think, it’s just one shag and nothing else. Why in Merlin’s name would I bring her home? “’Cause believe it or not, not everyone wants to take part in the Wynne-Arundael family Christmas madness. I don’t even really want to be here.”

“Ah, more lies!” she scoffed, smiling in an intentionally maddening way. “You love Christmas.”

“Like hell I do,” he spat, making a point of glaring around at the excessive decorations crowding the kitchen, as well as the living room just past June’s shoulder where the glittering Christmas tree sat surrounded by stacks of bow-covered packages.

Samara laughed, watching her go, but when her eyes met Patrick’s her laughter died in her throat. “Aw, come on. I was vague.”

Patrick flicked his wand, sending the bowl of cranberries toppling over Samara’s head. Sam shielded herself immediately, sending the dried berries sliding off of her spell and onto the floor. “You’ve got a mess now,” she said bluntly.

Patrick ignored her attempt at a subject change. “So who is this guy, then? The one with the incredible shag,” he added with slight disgust in his voice.

“Just someone I met at work,” she began, “not like it’s any of your--”

“You copped off with a co-worker? Are you daft? That’s just asking for trouble! Merlin! No wonder you didn’t make Ravenclaw; you’re not as smart as I thought you were!” Patrick said incredulously.

Samara growled. “You’re being awfully assuming, there, Pat,” she said lowly. “Think I don’t know what I’m doing? You’re wrong. It doesn’t matter that we work together; he’s just a friend. It’s purely casual.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” She waved her hand dismissively and rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything else about it. Despite what Zeppelin claimed, they both knew that she could see right through his bullshit. “So, what did you get me this year, huh?”

“Nothing. Clearly you must remember how I don’t believe in buying presents for you.”

“When do I get to open it?”

“Tomorrow, with the rest of the little kiddies.”

“It’s something good isn’t it?”

“It’s the shitty lump of coal you deserve for not visitin’ me for four months.”

“I’m sorry bout that Zep, you know I am. We were in Asia and Australia and Merlin only knows where else, I was just busy.” She shook her head and put a hand on her hip, switching from the words and voice of a normal 25 year-old back to those of an eager child. “I bet it’s a good one. Yours usually are.”

Patrick tried to respond, but after several unfinished syllables of trying, he gave up, throwing his hands up in the air. Finally, he spoke. “Fine. Don’t listen to your older, wiser brother. Make your own mistakes.” He flicked his wand; the cranberries flew off the ground and back into the bowl on the counter.

Sam opened her mouth, perhaps to get in the last word, but was interrupted by a high voice in the living room.

“Patrick! Sammy! Carolers are here!”

“Coming!” Patrick pushed himself off the counter, leaving the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, turning to look at his sister. “Do what you want, Sam. You’re an adult, after all. But you’re only kidding yourself, you know.” He smiled as Ellen met him in the doorway. He tilted her chin up with his finger and kissed her sweetly beneath the mistletoe. An adorable pink hue spread itself across Ellen’s face, causing Sam to turn her gaze forward at the empty kitchen, sinking back into her thoughts. She picked up her somewhat neglected glass of cider. She certainly needed it now.

It didn’t mean anything. It doesn’t. Friends with benefits, that’s all.

Samara took a long sip, closing her eyes. She hadn’t realized before just how weak those arguments sounded. As angry as she was with Patrick, she was starting to wonder if he was right....

“Yeah okay, Juniper, it’s good. When have I ever gotten you anything less?”

“That’s what I thought.” She smiled, satisfied with this answer. “So what’d you get this chick that you’re sleeping with then?”

“Nothing.”

“Like, really nothing?”

“Yeah, really nothing.” He downed the last of his eggnog and then slid the glass across the counter, watching it tumble over the edge of the sink where it landed with a small cracking sound. “It’s just sex. It doesn’t matter. When has it ever?” June raised her eyebrows at him, and this time, Zeppelin wasn’t sure he could even convince himself with that lie.

“Samara!” the five-year-old said sternly in the doorway. “You’re going to miss them!”

“All right, all right, I’m comin’.” Downing the rest of her cider, she slid off the stool and let Hannah lead her outside by the hand. Even a distraction as awful as caroling was welcome just now.

[Samara Raillen]

[ Click for OOC Comment ]

Samara is 18. Alan Raillen is a squib. Dan owns the diner that Sam will eventually come to live above in London.

Uncle Alan

“You look like you could use something stronger than a coffee.”

Samara spun slightly on her stool, looking up toward the direction of the amused voice. It led her to a man behind the diner’s front counter; he was wearing a dingy apron.“Sure, pour it in,” she said back, sliding her coffee toward him expectantly.

The man, an average, blonde-haired guy who looked in his late thirties, smiled crookedly, sliding the steaming mug back toward her. “We don’t do that here,” he added with a chudkle, straightening and crossing his arms. Sam picked it up and grudgingly drank from it, a bit disappointed.

“So, what’re you in for, kid?” The man asked, raising an eyebrow as he began to wipe the countertop with a rag.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been sitting here all day, and you look gloomier than a grandfather's clock. What’s got you so miffed, eh?” He pulled a coffee pot off the burner and topped her off wordlessly. Sam blinked.

“Nothing -- only I haven’t got any money for --”

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We won’t sell it all anyway. Now, tell me more about this ‘nothing’ that’s got you glued to that stool of mine.”

Sam frowned; this man seemed amused, tickled even, at her plight, when she hadn’t even told him anything. She finally shrugged, gazing evenly at him. “Just dunno where to go from here,” she explained simply. It was the truth; she’d arrived in London early that morning, after having stormed out of her parents’ house for good. The memory was fresh in Samara’s mind, and she drank more coffee quickly, wishing it really were something stronger.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down there, you’ll burn your throat right up,” said the worker hastily. “I didn’t give you an incredible cuppa just so you can abuse it.”

“Cuppa -- I don’t --”

“Ah, yeah, it’s not tea, is it? But it’s still a cuppa something isn’t it?” Sam thought she might have noticed a small twinkle in the older man’s eye. She wasn’t sure yet whether she liked him, but he was certainly interesting. Sam obliged him by taking a smaller sip of the cuppa. Perhaps he might leave her be then.

No such luck. “Say,” he said, leaning forward onto the counter and squinting at her. “You look a bit familiar. What’s your name, then?”

Samara couldn’t help the strange smile spreading across her face. “You’re asking all the questions. Can’t I have one?”

The man grinned in appreciation for her retaliation. “Shoot. I’m an open book,” he said, opening his arms out widely to prove his point.

Sam thought for a moment. “Well, what’s your name?” Generic, but a useful question all the same.

“Dan. Daniel. Danny. Whatever you want,” he said, winking briefly. “I own this place. Now, return the favor?”

“Dunno. Names are powerful in the wrong hands,” she remarked. Dan grinned wider.

“All right. I've given you my name, and I'll add the rest of the pot of coffee if you give me yours.”

“Sam.”

“That’s all?”

“Samara, then.”

Dan made a face; that clearly wasn’t what he meant. “How excellent. But that doesn’t help me figure out how I know you. Because I’m almost absolutely certain that I do. What’ll I have to give to get a lovely last name outta you?” He tilted his head to the side, watching her casually.

Samara looked around the diner, her eyes finally resting on the glass pie container to her right. “I’ll take some of that,” she said, nodding toward it. “But it’ll have to be good.”

With quick, practiced motions, Dan whipped the container open, spooned a large slice of apple pie onto a plate, and slid it across the counter to her open hand. With another flick of his wrist, he tossed a fork up in the air, only for it to land prongs-down in the top of the hearty slice. “Best pie in London, and I promise we’re no Sweeney Todd,” he said with a slight chuckle.

“Sweeney...agh, forget it,” Sam murmured in confusion. She scooped up a bite of cinnamon apples and set it into her mouth eagerly. Instantly her mouth began to water; it had to have been the most incredible thing she’d ever tasted. She began unceremoniously shoveling pie into her mouth. It was almost addicting. She closed her eyes; had she ever even had apple pie before? Certainly none that tasted like this.

“I take it that you agree with me,” his slick voice cut through Sam’s ecstasy and she peered open one eye at him. “So, guess you gotta tell me what your name is, don’t you?” he finished with a smile.

Sam swallowed thickly, all too willing to tell him now. “It’s Raillen,” she said, her mouth half-full of the next bite. “Sam Raillen.”

“Raillen?” Dan shot up quickly, giving her a sharp look. “Raillen, really? You wouldn’t...by chance be related to an Alan Raillen, now would you?” his tone maintained its casual air, but Sam noticed a more intent look in his eyes.

“Er...” Sam frowned. “Alan Raillen was my dad’s brother.”

“Really now...” The man turned away for a moment, reaching below the counter for something. Sam used this opportunity to finish off the rest of her slice of pie, and then reach into the container to the right for another slice. But when he turned back around, he had a picture frame clasped in his hand. “It’s that pretty smile you’ve got there. I know it quite well. So, then...you’re Marcus’s girl, eh?”

“How--how do you know my dad, exactly?” Samara tilted her head suspiciously, biting off a bit of crust at the end of her fork. She’d thought this was a muggle joint.

“Don’t, really. Only met the man twice in my life,” he said simply, before sliding the frame across the table toward her.

Samara looked down as she chewed. “What’m I looking at?” The picture was old, unmoving, and rather faded; but unmistakably there were two grinning boys in the photo, looking in their early teens, their arms around each others’ shoulders. One boy had a blond mop of hair and a strange glint in his eyes; the other had dark, wild waves of hair, and a square jaw... “Is that Alan?” she asked quietly. She didn’t know much about her deceased uncle, only that he’d been killed by a motorcyclist when he was just fourteen. She'd never seen a picture of him, or maybe she had, a long time ago. It was something her father never talked about.

“Your Uncle Alan was one of my best mates,” Dan said quietly to her. He tapped the photo. “This was taken a week before the accident.”

Sam’s eyes widened as she examined the photo more closely. Alan had a huge grin on his face; it reminded Sam much of her own. "Was he always that happy?"

Dan leaned forward onto the counter again, resting his chin on his knuckles. "Ah, not always," he said. "Alan always wore that smile proudly -- except for when it came to Marcus."

Samara choked on a sip of her coffee; through teary eyes she managed to swallow it down. Some strange, self-righteous part of her began to cheer; it appeared that she wasn't the only one who had trouble with Marcus Raillen.

"You don't know much about your dad and his brother, do you, Samara?" Dan sighed, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair. "Obviously they had their differences. Those boys lived in two different worlds," he said, taking the frame back between his fingers and stroking the glass with his thumbs gently. "Your dad -- well, he always wanted Al to be more like him. Strong and steady. And, you know." Dan glanced around the empty diner before continuing. "He wanted him to live in your world."

Samara's eyes widened. This diner owner...wasn't he a muggle? Sam wasn't so sure anymore, but she decided to play it off coolly. "I dunno what you mean by that," she said bluntly. She looked up at Dan; his face had changed. A shadow hung about his features, and he didn't take his eyes away from the smiling old photo. "But," she continued quickly, "then what sort of world did Alan live in?" She wanted to know more.

Dan looked up finally, smiling contently at her question. "Al lived for excitement. Adventure. And he would do anything for anyone, if anyone would have asked. Oh, we broke some rules in our day," Dan said with a chuckle, "we went to the same school, you see. Wouldn't go down without a fight. Dan and Al, fearlessly ruling the school, side by side, forever!" The man turned his gaze upward, gesturing broadly as he laughed. Sam found herself smiling into the tale despite her earlier attempted reserve.

His smile faded, though, only a moment later. Samara felt her heart sink to her stomach. “You must’ve really cared about him,” she murmured.

Dan nodded softly, lowering his head back to the photograph. “Yes, with all that I was,” he said. “We protected each other. Took care of each other. Never went anywhere without the other along.”

A sudden bitter anger roared inside of Sam’s stomach. “You were a much better brother than my father was, then,” she said darkly. Dan snapped his head toward her.

“I daresay not. No one could replace Marcus in Alan’s eyes. Kid, your father loved Alan just as much as Alan loved him; and Alan, you must know, had a lot of love inside of him to give.” He shifted his weight to his other foot with a groan. “I’m gettin’ old,” he chuckled, groping behind him for a wooden stool, which he slid forward with his foot and sat down upon. “You know, Marcus spent a lot of time trying to be there for Alan, to help him grow as a person. He was very vested in Al’s well-being; probably why he didn’t like me so much,” he said with yet another quiet laugh. “He punched me, once. I was twelve. Right in the eye. Swelled up for a week and a half. Impressive shot, he was, too.”

Samara’s frown only deepend as he spoke. “But you can’t be talking about my dad,” she said stubbornly. “He’s not like that at all. He’d never hit someone; it’s beneath him.” Marcus had always scolded Sam for getting into raucous behavior; she’d never seen him get violent in her entire life. It just wasn’t appropriate to do so. Sam couldn’t even imagine it.

“Ah, but he did, honest,” he responded. “Come on, now; don’t look so dreary. Perk up. How can’t you smile, lookin’ at this face?” he asked, holding the frame in front of her hazel eyes; his thumb was appropriately placed over his own young head, and Sam’s focus was drawn again to the grinning brown-haired boy. It made the corners of her own mouth twitch back up. Dan was right; Alan’s joy was addictive, even in a decades-old photograph.

“That’s it, there’s the smile I love to see,” Dan said in satisfaction, leaning back on his stool. “The smile I haven’t seen in...well, a long time.”

Sam paused, thinking hard. Then, she clenched her fists firmly and looked up to meet his eyes. “Dan, you know about my dad, don’t you? About what he is? Er, what I am?” She tilted her head slightly, waiting for his response.

A small, clever smile traced its way across his lips. “I was never supposed to know,” he murmured, tracing his finger along the frame of the picture lightly. “But Alan told me about everything. And I’ll admit, I was fairly suspicious as to how he kept getting letters from very well-trained messenger owls. One night, he just...told me.”

“And...you just believed him?” Samara’s wide eyes shone as she hung on the man’s every word.

“Of course, I did,” he said. “I always believed Alan. He never lied.”

Just then, Dan coughed, rubbing his eyes sorely. “Ahh, I’ve gotten a bit sentimental,” he laughed weakly. “And you’ve driven us quite off the topic, now haven’t you, Samara?”

Sam blinked, slightly taken aback. “What topic?” She couldn’t even recall what they’d been talking about before she’d learned about her uncle.

Dan grinned crookedly. “You,” he said simply, standing up again. “You’re in a bit of a spot, now, aren’t you? You don’t know where to go from here,” he repeated. “What’s your pinch?”

Sam sighed. “I’ve left home,” she said, “for good.”

Dan’s eyebrows rose, but he asked no questions. Instead, he scratched his scruffy chin thoughtfully. “Hmm...so, you need a place to live, a job, and a handful of living skills, eh?” he estimated. He produced a small muggle device from behind the cash register and began tapping at it exhuberantly. Sam was certain he must be toying with her; wasn’t that thing used for basic maths? She vaguely recalled using one at her preparatory school. “Uh-huh. Yep. Ahh. So,” he muttered as he typed, “It’ll cost you...”

A small receipt printed out the top. Dan ripped it off and handed it over to her. Sam frowned at it.

a smile a day

read the receipt. Sam blinked, re-reading it, before looking up at him in confusion. “Er, hang on -- what?” she asked dumbly. “I, I really don’t understand...” How did he get that out of numbers?

“Look, kid,” he said seriously, leaning forward on the counter once more, “you can’t make it all on your own at this age. You gotta learn what it’s like to do a hard day’s work, to work up a sweat, to pay the bills and, most importantly, you gotta learn how to cook your bacon the right way, see?” He raised an eyebrow solemnly. “You can have all that here, at this diner. And, in return, I just want to see Alan’s smile on your face. Every day." There was a long pause in which diner owner and runaway locked eyes; it was nearly a game of Chicken. But Dan broke it abruptly as he straightened himself.

“So, what’ll it be?" He asked loudly. "You in? This is a limited offer, you know. Going once, going twice--”

“Yeah, all right!” Sam interrupted quickly. Dan was right; she needed a place to live, she needed work, and why not find it here? After all...it was plenty far away from her mother and father, in every respect. And that distance was what she needed just then.

Daniel grinned broadly, his crooked smile catching some of the light from above them. “Excellent. You’ll start tomorrow. Let me make a call; where’s your luggage?” he asked, as he was already in the middle of dialing. Samara gestured to her satchel and a very short duffel bag on the ground beside her stool, but the diner owner had already stopped paying attention. “Yeah, Stan -- I’ve got a new tenant for you, a young one.... No, no -- the other flats.” Dan laughed quietly. “You got it. I'll send her along.”

He clicked his cell phone off and scribbled quickly onto a slip of paper. He slid it across the counter toward her, and Sam picked it up. “What’s this?” she asked.

“Your new home,” he responded. “Just find this address, here, and you’ll see a man with a funny green overcoat. His name is Stan; he’s your landlord. Looks a bit shifty, but he’s all right,” he said dismissively. “And I’ll see you in here tomorrow at 8 o’clock sharp, got it?”

Samara grinned; everything was happening so quickly, and she felt a familiar excitement of the unknown rise up within her. She slid off the stool and collected her things. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t, we’ll see,” she shot at him. “Either way, guess I better get out of here, yeah?” She rummaged in her satchel, searching for any muggle money she might have -- but he held up his hand and shook his head. She shrugged and let a few coins slip back into the bag, picking up her duffel by the handle and making her way to the exit.

Her fingers paused as they touched the door handle, a sudden realization striking her. Without turning around, she spoke to the diner owner one last time.

“You really loved Alan, didn’t you, Dan?” She asked, noticing the odd weight in her words. There was a moment of silence, and she glanced back at him out of the corner of her eye.

He smiled confirmingly, closing his eyes and lowering his head. “Your uncle,” he said finally, “was the first person I ever really loved.”

Samara understood the significance of his words, and she nodded gently. “I thought so,” she replied, and without any sort of parting remark, she slipped out the door.

There was no doubt in her mind that she would return in the morning, at 8 o’clock sharp, just as requested, with eager eyes and ears to learn, and Uncle Alan’s winning smile upon her lips.

[Samara Raillen]

[ Click for OOC Comment ]

Set after If You Want Me and before our upcoming thread. Year 2028. Roysen is the Chief Hit Wizard. It's sorta flashback style, hope you understand the organization of it ><

Not Around You

Samara was careful of what sort of stories she’d tell Zeppelin about her time at the U. He was always interested; he loved her stories, he’d listen to her with an intensity that she thrived off of. She could relive old missions all night if he wanted her to, because he was the only one who understood. That was the benefit of experience. The rush of adrenaline, the thrill of the fight, the laugh at Death’s loosed grasp. He’d seen them all, just as she had. She’d swap him a story for just about anything.

But there was a lot that went unsaid. There were things she couldn’t articulate, things she felt rather confused about, although she could barely admit this to herself.

What she did know was when she felt the way she did today, there was no way she could be around Zep.

She sat with her knees against her chest on the couch, a half-empty bottle of cider in her hand and her hair falling lazily out of its clip, staring straight into the fireplace. The warmth of it seeped into her chilled body. Unfortunate, she thought absently, that there’s no real heat in here. It had been that way for nearly two weeks now, devoid of warm air, and after she’d inspected all the windows and cracks, she came up frustratingly empty-handed as to where the leak might be. As stated in her contract, the landlord had included heat for a monthly fee, and she had paid one week ago, right on time. She had just come from confronting him about it -- and he’d declared complete ignorance to the problem. Said he’d look into it. Something about a malfunctioning spell. Somehow, Sam doubted he’d look terribly hard. On her way back up the stairs, she was greeted enthusiastically by her rather out-of-sorts neighbor, who cheerily informed her that his heat spell was working just fine, and that perhaps she was merely feeling ill, or that her window wasn’t properly latched. Had she been in a proper mindset, she might have taken note of his patchy clothes and unkempt appearance, and wondered how on Merlin’s magical earth could he afford to pay for heat.

But, as previously noted, Samara was not in a terribly sharp state of mind.

It likely had started that morning, as she’d woken up in a fit of sweat and chills, her wand pointed tensely toward some unseen attacker. After she'd calmed down, she shook herself out of it with a feeling of pure disgust and annoyance. Pull your crap together. It was just another nightmare. Third night in a row. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t remember what was so scary about them anyway. It only pissed her off that she was scared of anything at all.

The rest of the morning was a bit better; she had cereal for breakfast and was able to find both her shoes with relative ease. She took a long, hot shower to thaw her skin, shot into her clothes and burst through the door before the frosty air could hit her. Apparating a block away from the Ministry entrance, she made it to work with two minutes to spare, just enough time to see a dark figure round the corner and stride dangerously toward her.

Just as the red-haired Magical Maintenance worker came into the light of the hallway, Samara rounded on him, her wand drawn instantly, just as it had been when she’d first awoken. The man, clearly surprised and more than a little terrified, held his hands before him harmlessly and stammered some unclear statement, but her arm had already fallen away, and she hurried past him with a muttered, “Sorry.” She could still feel the many pairs of eyes on her long after she’d boarded the lift.

Who did she keep seeing in the shadows? The guilty cement block in her stomach suggested that she knew the answer to that question.

All the more reason to stop thinking about it.

“Raillen!”

It was partial relief, partial worry that her boss had called her out of her morning training to step into his office. She was probably going to get yelled at for something; at least it would distract her.

“Note says you maliciously pointed your wand at another wizard, no prompt, no foundation.” A pair of narrowed green eyes traveled from the Ministry paper to settle on her face as Roger Roysen stood tall before her. He could be intimidating if he wanted to be.

“Wasn’t me,” she responded simply. It was worth a shot.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“All right, well, it was an accident. Won’t happen again. Drop it, yeah?” Sam scooted her chair back, starting to get to her feet.

“Sit. Down.”

Scrape. Thud.

“Look, I wasn’t trying to start anything -- I thought he -- he looked like -- I just thought I saw --” She stopped at the look on his face. It had shifted. Not underlying anger anymore. No, it was more like...what did he look like?

My father. He was about to say something Samara wouldn’t like.

With a sigh, the man leaned his palms forward onto his desk, curving his back to accomodate. “Samara, this isn’t unusual. Often in the department, the job...gets to our heads, understand?” He ruffled his short, peppery hair and continued, “Sometimes we see things that aren’t there, we get suspicious when we ought to let it go. You ever read that biography about Alastor--”

“I own it.”

“Right. Well, Alastor Moody was a prime example of this effect. And the department rules state that I can’t work you that hard. Once you start seeing things, I gotta dial you back, keep you on the home front for ah, what they call a ‘rest period.’.”

“Bollocks! I’m not seeing things, he just looked like --”

“Keep your head and hear me out. It’s completely normal. I myself cannot deny that a few times, I’ve noticed a bird overhead that I thought might have been--”

“Roysen, I haven’t been on the job that long!” With a long groan, Sam stood up, crossing her arms. “I’m fine. Won’t happen again. Lemme get back to training.”

“This is exactly why we have someone to talk to about all this. I’m scheduling you to see Myra this afternoon. Your mission has been reassigned to...” Roysen checked his paper. “Wynne. He should be free this afternoon.

No. I can’t believe this is happening. “But he’s already got one today!” Sam protested. “He’s at it right now, isn’t he?”

“He’s the only man I can spare with you out of the field today. He’ll be quick on his first one, and he'll do yours next with Capier.” Roysen dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. “You can’t skip out on this, Raillen. As part of your community service agreement--”

“Can’t I just meet with the bloody lady right now? Get it over with and get on with my mission?” This situation was growing worse and worse with every second.

But the older man just shook his head, gazing at her with an almost pitying look. “One o’clock in the Autumn Room. If you don’t show, you’ll be out of the program. End of story. I’m not budgin’ on this one.”

So Samara went, seeing no other option, and only thinking foully how many questions she might have to field from her boyfriend later that night, about why he had to cover her mission. And who knows what sort of word might get around about what had happened that morning...

“Did you recognize him?”

“Who?”

“The man you assaulted this morning?”

“I dunno what you heard but I didn’t assault anyone! I only drew my wand out of defense. I cast nothing, I said nothing. Merlin, you people,” she muttered the last bit, crossing her arms and setting her booted feet firmly upon the woman’s immaculate coffee table in defiance.

“Very well. But you aren’t answering the question, Samara.”

“I’m sorry, are we friends?”

“Pardon me?” The woman’s hand shot to her throat in surprise at Sam’s vicious undertones.

“My first name. Don’t use it.”

“I apologize.” A long hesitation. “Now, the Maintenance worker. Is he a friend of yours?”

“I dunno him. Next question.”

“Did he remind you of someone?”

“‘Course not--” Her response, though starting off quite clearly, died in her throat halfway through. Perhaps he did, a little bit. But who? “I -- yeah, maybe,” she muttered.

The woman smiled slightly at their progress. “Someone you’ve encountered recently?”

“I dunno about that....”

“Someone you captured on your job?” Sharp eyes flickered over a file in her lap. “If I recall, you had a rather vicious experience with a man named Barlow. Was that the man you thought you saw?”

“No, no, it wasn’t him.” Sam rolled her eyes, but inside she was starting to panic. What was this lady getting at? And why was it making her feel so anxious? She shifted in her seat.

“Another criminal you’ve put away?”

“No, it was nobody, I told you.” More shifting. A clenched fist. Was she going to punch this lady? That’d get me more time out of the field for certain. Control yourself....control. But the box was getting tighter and tighter, the room growing smaller and smaller, Samara growing tinier and tinier in the presence of the other woman.

“Perhaps someone from your own criminal experience?”

That was it. The last straw. Samara stood up abruptly, shattering the thick air with the loud scrape of her chair. It was time to get out of this hellhole, this painful enclosure. “This is bullshit,” she snapped. “I thought I saw him draw his wand out of the corner of my eye, so I drew mine outta reflex. There’s no sodding hidden meaning, no secret I’m tryin’ to hide! Just needed a day off from the fieldwork, to get my nerves back, and I’ve got it now, haven’t I? Are we done here?”

She didn’t wait for a response from the slightly taken aback counselor, instead striding across the room as quickly as her legs would carry her and throwing open the door. She held herself carefully until she made it around the corner, at which point she unclenched her shaking fists and inhaled deeply, leaning back against the wall and hoping nobody came around the corner any time soon.

Yes. Yes, the redhead looked familiar. Yes. He looked like...

“Like Jesse,” Sam murmured, still staring hard into her fireplace. crap. Like Jesse. But, why should she be so tense about seeing him? Why would he attack her? Why should she fear him, her old partner, her friend?

He ditched me to save his own skin. Left me in the hands of the law. He’s no friend. He’s a sodding coward. Samara took another hazy drink of cider, blinking slowly. It was true, she’d felt abandoned for the longest time by Jesse that night when everything went sour. But if she’d escaped with him, she would never have met Zeppelin.

Still...It had hurt. A lot more than Sam could admit to herself. But it was no cause for him to try and kill her, was it? She had nothing to be afraid of. She didn’t have to be afraid of him.

A stab of fear tore at her chest for the briefest instant. Her mind could only see a red-faced Irishman, swearing and shouting inches away from her face, trying to land a blow with his fist.... It was gone before she realized what had happened.

She took another drink.

After work, as predicted, Zeppelin had tried to catch her as she headed out the building, but she'd blown him off quickly, making up some excuse about visiting Patrick. She couldn’t be with him tonight. Not with the mood she was in now. There was too much...

Baggage. Baggage inside of her, with luggage tags tied directly to the tattoo on her left wrist. Sam could get away with living day-to-day without even thinking about the U, but whether she acknowledged it or not, it was still affecting her every thought, every action. She couldn’t get away. She didn’t want to. She needed to. She did want to. She didn’t know what she wanted.

Samara emptied the rest of her drink into her throat, swallowing harshly and choking.

Zeppelin didn’t need to see this. He didn’t need to know. And she was just being weird today. Really, it wasn’t so bad. It made Sam strong, her time with the Underground. She was fiercer, and sharper, and a better fighter, and a cleverer hunter, and a force to be reckoned with. She was confident, and invulnerable. They had made her that way. And she had great times, good memories, with drinking buddies and barfights and crazy missions and close calls and Jesse’s grin which looked so much like Zep’s and what?

What’m I doing? She shook her head in frustration, pulling up the hem of her boxers and tracing the pale scar tissue on her left thigh.

That’s over. It’s over. It ended with that curse.

I’m with Zeppelin now, and the Hit Wizards. And I like it here, too. They’re both great.

She couldn’t explain why she still felt so shitty inside, or why there were tears on her cheeks despite her fiercely clenched jaw. And she wasn’t planning on trying. She would just drink another, wallow in her strange distress, and hope that tomorrow morning, she would wake up and not feel afraid of something that wasn’t there anymore.

And then, only then, could she go see Zeppelin.