Chaotic and quarrelsome Durmstrang students bring shame on their institute, the Whomping Willow lashes out, and I look fabulous in a dragon-skin coat
By gossip correspondent Philomena Pest
With incredibly immense sadness, I gladly attended the funeral of the late Headmaster Matvey Golovin of Durmstrang Institute, with an invitation, darling, so personal, so richly rare, on a ticket so gloriously difficult to obtain, that I cannot begin to tell you how delighted I am, in a mourning sense of the word, to give you an inside scoop on the crucial and frankly disastrous events that transpired at this most devastatingly gossip-riddled of send offs.
In an attempt to squash our ability to really see or hear the speeches being presented, all journalists and paparazzi were stationed furthest away from the front, a decision more-than-likely spearheaded by Headmistress Aoife O’Keeffe and her
co-conspirator Deputy Headmistress Abaddon Blightly, whose staunchly private approach to running Hogwarts reputedly continues to annoy the Ministry of Magic and cause divisions on a national scale. But nothing gets past me, darlings!
Only an hour into the service, the sublime and deeply moving eulogies given by the figureheads of each school pivoted into ominous affray, as Headmistress Madame D’Avignon, of Beauxbaton’s Academy of Magic remarked in her whipping, native tongue, ‘la mort nous trompe’ in other words, darlings, death fools us. Aren’t you glad I speak French? This desperately spooky statement could mean a thousand different things about the man that lay molted in that casket. Was she suggesting that he is, in fact, not dead at all? A shocking notion, I know, but an unsurprising comment to come out of this notoriously unstable Tournament, and really, darlings, should we expect any less? Frankly, I couldn’t say.
What I can say, darling, is that a flask containing an unnamed, possibly enchanted substance was monstrously chugged-down by Lars Stangeland of Durmstrang Institute, who shortly, after that most terrifying of eulogies, gulped an easy-gallon of the hard-liquid, inciting total and inexplicable tyranny at the front-most-benches. It was a throwback to my samba days, in the hot-streets of Madrid! Except, back then (not long ago at all) I wasn’t underage, nor on the grounds of Hogwarts Castle!*
[Editor’s Note: Lars Stangeland is, in fact, not underage.]
No visible effort was made to dismantle his antics by the clearly-bored faculty of Hogwarts or the boy’s own collective of sullen-faced peers, whose shambolic (if a tad amusing) actions casted a shadow over his now rotting ex-Headmaster. That’s the thing about bodies, darling, they rot, as do livers. But what doesn’t rot is dragon-skin, and that’s precisely what I wore to this most classified of
Most of the fashion present was typically respectful of deathly traditions; the prudent wearing of black, in cashmeres, cottons, the occasional chantilly robe, with off-gray frills, though next to no fascinators could be found, something that is worryingly becoming the norm in today’s witching fashion. The students, most regrettably, all wore their school uniforms, to which I say damn you, darlings, damn you! Let the children look their best! And not as dire, dour and downtrodden as they did look. But what good is a Moroccon-silk gown, or a Californian-sewn suit, when the Whomping Willow is lashing out with murderous, blood-thirst vengeance?
I know, I know, darlings, just when you thought things couldn’t get any more brazen, the once serene and quietly meditative ‘Gentle Willow’, instead ripped out its own roots and thrashed down hard against the casket of the (presumably) deceased Golovin, absorbing it and the body beneath the surface, in thunderous, revenge-stricken terror. I saw it happen. A sight so destructive, one wonders if the Willow had been magically tampered with, or affected by the strange atmosphere spurred on by our befuddled North European friends. Either way, there’s only one word for it: scathing!
Patriotic songs filled the air toward the end of the ceremony, as all came together, despite the harrowing ongoings, and cheered those peculiar melodies loudly and proudly, in honour of this wizard’s life. Naturally, darlings, I was able to pick up the rhythm quite quickly. But how long will the singing and dancing last, before dissension erupts amongst the visiting champs and their fellows, now that death has stifled the lot of them, and tarnished the prestige and fame that once awaited the winner at the end? It was obvious, darlings, that the seed of insecurity had already been perniciously planted, with the quake of Golovin’s death. They’re quarrelsome, headstrong and a broom-crash waiting to happen. And how exciting that is!
A funeral a day gives me something to say, darlings, and to that I ask; who’s next!?
*[OOC Reminder: As a general reminder, the majority of Mischief Managed’s character base is comprised of minors. As such, in order to adhere to Second Life’s terms of service, only by those of 18 years and older ((who are no longer students)) may consume alcohol and tobacco products on our sims. For those of you who are of age:
Alcohol is not allowed to be drank in Hogwarts itself unless at dinner time at the staff table, the staff room or private offices and/or rooms.
It should also be noted that the unnamed liquid passed by the Durmstrang students was in fact discovered to not be alcohol.]