Post by Fitz Hargreaves on Dec 29, 2007 17:21:36 GMT
Going on the run wasn't fun.
He'd guessed it wouldn't be, that's why he'd been so very careful to maintain a low profile, but then that fateful night had occured. McNiven had ruined everything, that's how Fitz had primarily felt that night when his world had come crashing down around him, his name descredited, he was almost a rogue for goodness sakes. Fortunately he'd come to his senses when Aurélie had slapped him, that had been a real jolt he could tell you, his cheek had stung and his eyes had watered from the fierce blow and the stream of french that had flown his way.
It had been precisely what he needed, good old Aurélie.
So Fitz had pulled himself together, the red print on his cheek had been a great reminder though it vanished all to quickly, he half wondered if he should have given Aurélie a knife to give him a permanent reminder of how childish he'd really been, but she probably would have gutted him like a poisson as she'd say in her charming french way. Evidently Fitz had lost his job, his career had failed, but as Mike had pointed out he'd known it was possible from the outset when he'd joined the League. He'd oh so heartily thanked Mike for pointing out that it was his own fault. Marianne had been the worst though, having a little giggle over his disreputable career landing face down in the mud. Ah well they meant well really.
Losing his article had been a crushing blow, but he'd been painfully reminded of how evil the Ministry was. It took direct action towards himself to remind Fitz why he fought the war in the first place. Having calmed down, it had taken a while Elijah could tell you, Fitz had dared leave the Headquarters, and begin his new line of work; recruitment. Now Fitz would call himself a natural orator, man many people would flock to follow, but that was trying to boost his flagging spirits, true he'd managed to persuade a fair few people to support them, but hardly any to actually join them. Fear, that was what Fitz believed it was, and ignorance, many folk didn't believe the Ministry was really corrupt at all. On the surface it seemed remarkably like they weren't, but one only had to dig a little to uncover the vapours of the truth. The whole truth, the very extremity was known only to a select few, Fitz not being one of them. He was afterall still very naive, course he'd never ever admit that, no matter what evidence you amassed against him, because he could be a stubborn old mule when he wished.
So Fitz had tried his hand at recruitment, but that was solely during the day, now he had spare time in the evenings he devoted himself to furthering and honing many skills that would prove exceptionally useful in the struggles that were sure to come. Duelling had been a priority, incredibly embarrassed at his efforts on that night wouldn't chip the iceberg, he'd been utterly deflated, perhaps it had been the blow to his ego and inhaustible confidence that he had needed, many would argue that, but it had happened, and Fitz had struggled to pick himself up after that. McNiven might think him a changed man, but Marianne still believed him the same arrogant reporter, he'd have to prove his worth to her somehow. But none could truly tell how Fitz had altered, least of all him.
He'd tried to change for sure, but had it truly worked, would sparring with McNiven each evening really make him a fighter? Would gossiping with Marianne make him a Wizengamot member? And would flirting with Aurélie really make her love him?
Who knows?
Now a shadowy figure, which was an ordinary happenstance around this area of Hogsmeade, crept into the Hog's Head for a quiet pint. Beneath the folds of the heavy cloak was Fitz Hargreaves, a changed man perhaps. His face was grim now, there were lines that had never creased his brow before, but such things made his smile all the more dazzling, when he now infrequently used it. Grim he looked as he jumped atop a stool at the bar, "a pint please," he ordered in a thick accented voice to disguise his own, more dulcet tones.
"Sure," grunted the barman plonking down a sloshing pint glass, beer slopping into Fitz's lap; he barely flinched. Where before he would have shrieked and demanded the man pay for the repairs to an expensive fashionable item he wore, he was now far less materialistic; shabby would be his appearance at the moment, though he could still spruce himself up if necessary. But he'd allowed his stubble to grow to disguise his near effeminate features, only his shocking blue eyes would be immediately recognisable to one who knew him well. Handing over the coins into the beefy outstreched hand of the barman he grunted, nearly offering a tip as he once would have done, sure money wasn't short but he couldn't squander on a man who didn't even serve a decent pint. Taking a swig he realised his tastes were still as high as ever, it was awful, but he gulped down the thick liquid regardless, hunching his back he curled his hands about his pint then put on a false look of dejection. Nobody would want to talk with a depressed grumpy looking man, or so he thought as a finger tapped on his shoulder; here we go, he thought resignedly fearing the worst, a ministry official having spotted him already.Turning slowly his eyes widened in amazement...
He'd guessed it wouldn't be, that's why he'd been so very careful to maintain a low profile, but then that fateful night had occured. McNiven had ruined everything, that's how Fitz had primarily felt that night when his world had come crashing down around him, his name descredited, he was almost a rogue for goodness sakes. Fortunately he'd come to his senses when Aurélie had slapped him, that had been a real jolt he could tell you, his cheek had stung and his eyes had watered from the fierce blow and the stream of french that had flown his way.
It had been precisely what he needed, good old Aurélie.
So Fitz had pulled himself together, the red print on his cheek had been a great reminder though it vanished all to quickly, he half wondered if he should have given Aurélie a knife to give him a permanent reminder of how childish he'd really been, but she probably would have gutted him like a poisson as she'd say in her charming french way. Evidently Fitz had lost his job, his career had failed, but as Mike had pointed out he'd known it was possible from the outset when he'd joined the League. He'd oh so heartily thanked Mike for pointing out that it was his own fault. Marianne had been the worst though, having a little giggle over his disreputable career landing face down in the mud. Ah well they meant well really.
Losing his article had been a crushing blow, but he'd been painfully reminded of how evil the Ministry was. It took direct action towards himself to remind Fitz why he fought the war in the first place. Having calmed down, it had taken a while Elijah could tell you, Fitz had dared leave the Headquarters, and begin his new line of work; recruitment. Now Fitz would call himself a natural orator, man many people would flock to follow, but that was trying to boost his flagging spirits, true he'd managed to persuade a fair few people to support them, but hardly any to actually join them. Fear, that was what Fitz believed it was, and ignorance, many folk didn't believe the Ministry was really corrupt at all. On the surface it seemed remarkably like they weren't, but one only had to dig a little to uncover the vapours of the truth. The whole truth, the very extremity was known only to a select few, Fitz not being one of them. He was afterall still very naive, course he'd never ever admit that, no matter what evidence you amassed against him, because he could be a stubborn old mule when he wished.
So Fitz had tried his hand at recruitment, but that was solely during the day, now he had spare time in the evenings he devoted himself to furthering and honing many skills that would prove exceptionally useful in the struggles that were sure to come. Duelling had been a priority, incredibly embarrassed at his efforts on that night wouldn't chip the iceberg, he'd been utterly deflated, perhaps it had been the blow to his ego and inhaustible confidence that he had needed, many would argue that, but it had happened, and Fitz had struggled to pick himself up after that. McNiven might think him a changed man, but Marianne still believed him the same arrogant reporter, he'd have to prove his worth to her somehow. But none could truly tell how Fitz had altered, least of all him.
He'd tried to change for sure, but had it truly worked, would sparring with McNiven each evening really make him a fighter? Would gossiping with Marianne make him a Wizengamot member? And would flirting with Aurélie really make her love him?
Who knows?
Now a shadowy figure, which was an ordinary happenstance around this area of Hogsmeade, crept into the Hog's Head for a quiet pint. Beneath the folds of the heavy cloak was Fitz Hargreaves, a changed man perhaps. His face was grim now, there were lines that had never creased his brow before, but such things made his smile all the more dazzling, when he now infrequently used it. Grim he looked as he jumped atop a stool at the bar, "a pint please," he ordered in a thick accented voice to disguise his own, more dulcet tones.
"Sure," grunted the barman plonking down a sloshing pint glass, beer slopping into Fitz's lap; he barely flinched. Where before he would have shrieked and demanded the man pay for the repairs to an expensive fashionable item he wore, he was now far less materialistic; shabby would be his appearance at the moment, though he could still spruce himself up if necessary. But he'd allowed his stubble to grow to disguise his near effeminate features, only his shocking blue eyes would be immediately recognisable to one who knew him well. Handing over the coins into the beefy outstreched hand of the barman he grunted, nearly offering a tip as he once would have done, sure money wasn't short but he couldn't squander on a man who didn't even serve a decent pint. Taking a swig he realised his tastes were still as high as ever, it was awful, but he gulped down the thick liquid regardless, hunching his back he curled his hands about his pint then put on a false look of dejection. Nobody would want to talk with a depressed grumpy looking man, or so he thought as a finger tapped on his shoulder; here we go, he thought resignedly fearing the worst, a ministry official having spotted him already.Turning slowly his eyes widened in amazement...
