tha mad scientist, away from the public cuz i am an enemy

[Abyssinius Turner]

It was so cold. Abyssinius was cold and hungry and dirty and he just wanted to go home. His skeletal arms just didn't have enough flesh on them to keep him properly warm. Neither did the school robes he was wearing. When the Ministry came for him, they didn't even let him take his cloak. He figured he would at least get to gather his things and say goodbye to his pets. At least he'd managed to grab his journal on his way out. Did they allow you to keep a journal at Fuirae? He didn't know much about the prison for young wizards. That made him even more afraid- the fact that he hardly even knew it existed bothered him. Everyone knew about Azkaban and its strange history with dementors and whatnot. But this place... It felt eerie, walking down the hall to the Warden's office. He wondered if she would be a kind woman, like the Headmaster of a school. During his trial he'd been told that Furiae would "rehabilitate" him. Surely that required a warden that was kind and understanding. He decided that this must be the case.

As he neared the door he wondered what would happened to his creations. The ministry would probably kill them all. Surely at least a few of the crab-slugs would get away. They were pretty quick. Everything else, though... Something that haunted his memory was the centipede eggs (they were such beautiful, misunderstood creatures!) on which he'd used a timed swelling solution. He'd looked all over for those and wasn't able to find them. Surely they would be slaughtered whenever they hatched. The thought was almost too much to bear! Those poor creatures, loose in Hogwarts castle without anyone to keep track of them. Well, Abyssinius would be in for a happy surprise, as three of the sixteen centipede eggs had lodged themselves onto his scalp, as he would very soon realize.

In any case, he now came to the door. A chill went down his spine. Agh. Fear. Abyssinius shook inside of robes that were a bit roomy for him. In the months that he had discovered the Monstermaker's Cookbook, Abyssinius had started skipping meals. A frame that was already quite slender had wasted away to dismally thin. This certainly didn't help keep the edge off the quivers that had overtaken him. As he knocked on the the Warden's door he continued to shake quite uncontrollably.

[Sicila O'Dair]

The door had been left open just a crack, allowing one (if one wished) to both hear and peek inside.

“No, Misha,” A woman was saying, sounding both tired and irritated. “There hasn’t been even a hint of it, in any of them, and you know it. Do you think I would lie to you?”

“Of course not.” The second speaker was a steady male voice of Russian origin by the accent. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully and methodically, a certain calmness to his procedure. “But this is unlike you.”

“Do not tell me what I am and am not like.” The woman’s voice had risen slightly and there was a cold fire in her words now, like a snake about to strike. The man murmured something and she softened. “No, no. We have waited this long, we can and will wait for however long it might take.”

There was a long silence. The man spoke again, gently. “Sicila, what if there is not—“ He was cut off by something and there was another silence.

“Misha,” The woman started to say in a dangerous tone when the Marshal who had finally caught up to Abyssinius rapped twice on the door.

”What?!” The woman inside snarled angrily, and something crashed to the ground. The door swung open entirely to reveal a blonde-haired man who stared at the pair. Behind him at a desk was a fierce, cold-eyed woman who glared forward, infuriated by the interruption. A potted plant lay on the ground beside her desk, dirt and roots split out from where the vessel had cracked open.

“Hello,” said Michael. He glanced over his shoulder. “It is a new join.”

“Well, yes. I can see that,” Sicila snapped, giving the Marshal accompanying the boy a particularly nasty look. “Let them in, Misha. And you,” she stared at the Marshal, “Go away.”

After handing over a wand and a file to the man, the Marshal went.

Sicila waited about two seconds before demanding, “Come in, boy. What is your name? What did you do? Oh, for the love of Merlin - give me that, Misha.” She snatched the folder away while her husband went to securing the wand away in the chest behind her, leafing through the file momentarily. Her brows lifted, briefly, and the witched glanced up. “Magical creatures? You create magical creatures?”