*Snape lets his still-dripping hair fall into his face, thick wet bands now separating him from Crouch like prison bars. They prove an inadequate shield, his lips forming an unwanted answer.*
A simpering fortune-teller who was applying for a job. She was clearly one bezoar short of an antidote.
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Date: 2011-09-01 01:54 am (UTC)A simpering fortune-teller who was applying for a job. She was clearly one bezoar short of an antidote.