Location: Potter Estate
Time: 5th of December, noon
Status: Closed, for @gryffinevans
"That’s the real agenda, isn’t it?” Bran called after the familiar shock of red hair passing her in the corridor. Her tone was pointedly poised, her posture -- the crossed arms, the shoulders leaned back against the post at the end of the staircase’s hand railing -- forced an air of nonchalance onto her that didn’t agree with how she felt at all. Her chin was cocked up, her gaze on Evans with past her bottom eye-lashes. If she made herself look laid-back, then because she knew the only other option was a leap forward with her wand drawn.
Oh, she was pissed. The initial debriefing of the mission had left her rather cold. Injuries here and there, but no one cared about that. Then, however, had come the news that those galoots had taken the wrong fucking ball. Failing the mission. How could they fail a mission this simple?! A disgrace! Bran was certain that if she hadn’t been in a distraction-squad but in the Nott’s house herself, she would’ve done it right. None of that embarrassment. Played like children, that’s what the Order had been.
And then the news on Mrs Nott had come in... Bran didn’t know her well, but she knew she was a bloody respectable woman, always giving admirable amounts of gold to charities at the end of the year, always kind to the people she met. Her. Now. Dead. And not only dead but killed. Killed by someone who hadn’t even gotten her own blood drawn because of it. There she was, just walking as though nothing had happened, no guilt, no shame, no apologies written on her porcelain face. Bran’s fingers curled tightly into her crossed arms. “Not equality between Muggleborns and Purebloods. But a world where there’s none of the latter left, and Muggleborns have become superior. That’s your agenda, isn’t it?”
