It was supposed to be a celebratory occasion. It was, after all, a time of giving and charity. Of gathering to loved ones in the cold of winter and lighting a candle in a spirit of hope for the coming new year. But all poor Theodora could think about was disembowelment. Cruciatus. And apple-spiced tea.

She sipped at her cup, her ice blue eyes staring off into space. She sat at a very small table in the Black Chimaera, downstairs for this rare celebratory occasion. Tawse and his new staff may have attempted to decorate, but Theodora Kingstreet sat deeply hooded and facing the wall.

The Daily Prophet was laid out neatly in front of her, opened to page two where could be viewed a lengthly article concerning the arrest of a certain young wizard. This young wizard had been caught with runespoor eggs, attempting to frame the Minister of Magic’s fiancee, Moira Randall. But you couldn’t read it now, not if you wanted to. It seemed something had set fire to those three columns of text and the accompanying photograph. It was charred through to the table where the surface was black and smoking.

Theodora’s nostrils flared as she inhaled the cinimmony holiday scent of her tea, basking in the comforting thought of what she would do to Devlin Matthews. Disembowelment. Cruciatus, perhaps. And apple-spiced tea.

– One Can Never Find Good Help These Days from Absit Omen

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