Setting: The abandoned offices of wizarding publishers Fabulous Fabulas
I'd got their notification letter earlier that day. My publishers, those spineless cowards, Fabulous Fabulas, were packing up to head for safer climes and my book, the glorious Travels with Trolls was to be postponed until such time as there were people alive to buy it. Obviously, this wasn't the sort of news I was looking for. The truth be told, I was on my last few galleons from the success of the last book. With all the bloodshed and mayhem around, people weren't venturing out to buy books (bastards) but I knew that a new adventure would have lured them out. I'd been relying on it. But now what? Rita had been the last friend I could have turned to in need and now that was clearly not an option. I was loathed to go anywhere within a few miles of my parents, who would certainly make me painfully aware of any assistance I got. They concluded my list of help.
My home, which surely I'd now have to forfeit, felt oppressive and stifling, so I took whiskey from the cupboard and headed out into London. I ignored the Ministry safety measures completely. I wanted to be alone. Let the Death Eaters take me if they wanted, at least then all my critics would have their traps permenantly shut by tragedy. (I didn't really want that, of course, but that was the extent of my depression that I'd even pretended such a thing).
Somehow, my memory being impaired by the booze, I found myself outside the offices of Fabulous Fabulas. It was deserted, boarded-up and forlorn. The bastards had skipped town.
Howling my displeasure to the grey sky, I started hurling whatever spells I could think of at the building (one of them was possibly Scurgify because the bricks became instantly less grubby), along with bottles and whatever else I could lay my hands on.