We're trying to keep people out of the office at the moment to comply with the lockdown restrictions and... the marketing team appear to be oblivious to good behaviour or even understanding what the problem is. I'm starting to wonder why we even employ them when they're this stupid... (sigh).
The display The plans of Pigpimples disappeared silently in front of Hermione as the spell whisked them back to wherever they were stored and a pen, dislodged by their sudden departure, rolled across the writing table and fell to the floor. Hermione watched it, making no move to pick it up, thinking about Moorhouse. Knowing how to get there was only a part of the story, of course. What was she going to do when she got there? She leaned forwards, her elbows on the writing desk and her head in her hands. She glared across the room at some bookcases that happened to be in her way and, as sometimes happened in high-magical environments, the bookcases shuffled slightly away from her gaze. There was a soft fluttering sound as the books on the shelves jostled one another in irritation, but otherwise the library was silent. Unusual properties of doors, she thought. She had a suspicion that Professor Snipe was helping her in some oblique way, and she was certain that it was for his own ends, whatever they might be, but for the moment, with nothing else to go on, accepting that help seemed sensible. Moorhouse's doors were all unusual and, if the books were right, she might not even recognise doors there when she saw them. She scrunched her face up as though trying to repress a sneeze -- there was something in that thought that needed tracing a little bit further.... "Is this a pen?" The flame-haired librarian had picked it up from the floor and was pointing it at Hermione like a weapon. "Does it look like one?" said Hermione, her natural sarcasm reacting while her brain was still pre-occupied with doors. Her ears nudged her just in time, and she seized her wand. "Ms Witch," said the librarian in tones of distilled acid. "You will not take that ton--" "Obliviate" whispered Hermione. "--um." The librarian looked at her hand. "Is this a pen?" "Yes, it is, it's mine, thank-you," said Hermione with a meekness she'd never felt in her life. She held her hand out and forced a smile and the librarian placed the pen on the table and walked off. Hermione controlled the urge to obliviate the knowledge of how to walk from the librarian's head and looked at the pen. "Isn't it obvious it's a pen?" she said quietly. "I mean, it's not like you need a spell to identify pens." And with that banal, stupid thought the rest of her thinking opened up like a display of flowers blooming. "I need a spell to identify doors," she said equally quietly. "That's the most stupid and the most brilliant thing I think I've ever thought of."
2 comments:
We're trying to keep people out of the office at the moment to comply with the lockdown restrictions and... the marketing team appear to be oblivious to good behaviour or even understanding what the problem is. I'm starting to wonder why we even employ them when they're this stupid... (sigh).
The display
The plans of Pigpimples disappeared silently in front of Hermione as the spell whisked them back to wherever they were stored and a pen, dislodged by their sudden departure, rolled across the writing table and fell to the floor. Hermione watched it, making no move to pick it up, thinking about Moorhouse. Knowing how to get there was only a part of the story, of course. What was she going to do when she got there?
She leaned forwards, her elbows on the writing desk and her head in her hands. She glared across the room at some bookcases that happened to be in her way and, as sometimes happened in high-magical environments, the bookcases shuffled slightly away from her gaze. There was a soft fluttering sound as the books on the shelves jostled one another in irritation, but otherwise the library was silent.
Unusual properties of doors, she thought. She had a suspicion that Professor Snipe was helping her in some oblique way, and she was certain that it was for his own ends, whatever they might be, but for the moment, with nothing else to go on, accepting that help seemed sensible. Moorhouse's doors were all unusual and, if the books were right, she might not even recognise doors there when she saw them. She scrunched her face up as though trying to repress a sneeze -- there was something in that thought that needed tracing a little bit further....
"Is this a pen?" The flame-haired librarian had picked it up from the floor and was pointing it at Hermione like a weapon.
"Does it look like one?" said Hermione, her natural sarcasm reacting while her brain was still pre-occupied with doors. Her ears nudged her just in time, and she seized her wand.
"Ms Witch," said the librarian in tones of distilled acid. "You will not take that ton--"
"Obliviate" whispered Hermione.
"--um." The librarian looked at her hand. "Is this a pen?"
"Yes, it is, it's mine, thank-you," said Hermione with a meekness she'd never felt in her life. She held her hand out and forced a smile and the librarian placed the pen on the table and walked off. Hermione controlled the urge to obliviate the knowledge of how to walk from the librarian's head and looked at the pen. "Isn't it obvious it's a pen?" she said quietly. "I mean, it's not like you need a spell to identify pens."
And with that banal, stupid thought the rest of her thinking opened up like a display of flowers blooming. "I need a spell to identify doors," she said equally quietly. "That's the most stupid and the most brilliant thing I think I've ever thought of."
Greg - my background in marketing is both offended by and fully understanding of your comments :P
Hah, it is a bit of a treat to ride along inside Hermione's head like this. I am quite enjoying it!
Post a Comment