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@rubenxtravers-blog
“….. why do you need Melody? Or—why can’t you just find her yourself?”
“Well...” There was a sickening number of reasons why Ruben Travers needed Melody Shacklebolt. However, those reasons were exclusively reserved for the pair and no one else. “Wouldn’t you want someone to help you find Rhys, if you couldn’t find him?”
“Okay, so this is almost perfect, but you know what would make it amazing? A SLIDE! Let’s see if someone will conjure one—–where’s Melody?”
“How about this, Bardon... If you find Melody for me, you’ll not only have one slide, but two.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Isaiah nodded to the other Wizengamot members he’d been meeting with before turning on his heel and heading for the lift. These meetings were tedious but a necessary evil if he wanted to stay on top of things. But now he could finally head home and relax after a long day. He stepped out of the lift, easily making his way through the crowd, and was nearly at the exit when a figure bumped into him. “Sorry,” He quickly made excuse (no reason to start a fight as some of his colleagues might have), and leaned down to pick up the papers he’d dropped. “Were any of these yours?”
The Ministry was not the ideal place for the youngest Travers son -- the wayward son, shamed and banished away -- to reveal his great return from exile. However, as soon as Isaiah stepped out of the lift, the corners of Ruben’s lips curled up to form a mischievous smirk, and anyone could sense that Ruben was up to something. With meticulous timing, he stood in front of Isaiah resulting in a rough clash of bodies. And, as his older brother had always been, in his eyes, and for good reason, passive, Isaiah’s reaction didn’t surprise him one bit. Ruben, however, all in the name of tomfoolery, aggressively placed his foot on top of the documents, and impersonated a comical West Country accent. “You ‘avin’ a laugh, mate?” He chuckled. “I’ll fockin’ kill ya.”
“What’s the point of even reading the news anymore ...??” Melody mused to herself, as she scoffed at some of the DISGUSTING articles that were being printed in The Daily Prophet. “This is a JOKE.”
“Still talk to yourself,” Ruben appeared to stand behind the empty seat, lips curved into a small, nostalgic smile. “You’re not waiting for anyone, are you?” Clearly, some things never changed, and Melody had never been a woman to be kept waiting.
A long and grueling Quidditch practice had left Isaiah sore and wanting nothing more than to take advantage of the Prefects bath. Unfortunately, it seemed fate had other ideas, and he found his path into the castle blocked. “A doorway seems a peculiar place to loiter about—-was there something you needed?”
Eyes closed, Ruben leaned his head against the door jamb, long legs stretched across the width of the gap, as a small mischievous smirk crawled onto his features at the sound of footfalls. “Big brother,” he lowly drawled, pushing himself off the doorway and facing Isaiah. “Every time I see you, you suspect I need something. This offends me deeply.” Ruben placed a mocking hand on his chest. “Do I not exude friendship and storge?”
No man dared tread on him.
