More Drabbles
I couldn't be stuffed writing out a header for these. Deets in the cut text. Either OpenOffice or LJ screwed up my spacing and I couldn't be bothered fixing it. Enjoy.
…
The flight to London seemed to take forever.
Realistically, it would have been much easier to apparate, or take a Portkey, but her team were insistent on the fact that they see her off at the airport.
“Running Interpol in London,” was what she'd told them, and unless they dug really deep, that was all they'd ever know. Admittedly, even if they did find out the truth, it wasn't as though they'd actually believe it.
'Try to stay out of trouble,' Garcia said, wrapping Emily in a tight hug. 'No more going undercover to stop weapons dealers, okay?'
'I know,' Emily agreed. It seemed ill-advised to point out that Ian Doyle had never actually been a weapons dealer. There was another world entirely hiding underneath this one, and she could never tell them about it.
At least she wasn't the only one.
'Give Kingsley my best,' Hotch said, almost off-handedly. If anyone found his words suspicious, they didn't say anything. That, in itself, was part of the reason why the Wizarding World managed to stay under the radar for so long. It was a human perception filter, completely non-magical in origin, where Muggles only saw and heard what they wanted to hear.
The team were nosy enough, of course, but their curiosity was related to human behavior. The last thing they would think was that there was a secret world of magic hiding under their noses.
If you hear hooves, think horses, not zebras.
By the time her plane landed in Heathrow, she was ready to collapse into bed. Even after a lifetime of red eyes, she'd never quite perfected the art of sleeping in an aeroplane.
There was a lot of Ministry paperwork that goes in hand with renting Muggle property, so Emily had decided to stay at the hotel near Diagon Alley until she could find a place. In other circumstances, she might have stayed at the Leaky Cauldron, but the last thing she needed was for Garcia to panic when she couldn't get a call through while Emily's phone was on the fritz.
Part of her was relieved to be back in London. Even during the time of uncertainty, it gave her a sort of warmth that D.C. never could. That wasn't because of the people, or the climate, or any of that. It was because of the magic in the air.
Her fingers were tingling in anticipation.
The Dark Wizards of the world had better watch out.
…
‘Gale Hawthorne.’ Effie’s words are like a sledgehammer to my chest.
No.
Not Gale.
It can’t be Gale.
It's some kind of sick, cruel joke. The odds are definitely not in my favor today. Today it's as though someone has specifically set out to tear my life apart. My body shakes as he sets Prim aside. He stands tall. Defiant. I can barely even look at him.
The silence that has washed over the District persists, because if the people recognise me, then they almost certainly recognise Gale, an almost permanent fixture at my side.
Effie alone seems oblivious, and I find myself wishing for someone - anyone - to do what I had done. Anyone else but Gale. Not only is he my best friend in the world, but some small part of me had taken solace in the fact that he would care for Prim when I was gone. Now, that solace is lost.
We share a short glance, and Gale's eyes are like steel. He doesn't look afraid. I'm not sure I've ever seen fear in his eyes. The look in his eyes is strength.
I know without a shred of uncertainty that I could never kill him. I would rather die myself.
I try to keep my body unnaturally still, suppressing the wave of emotion that's threatening to wash over me. My mind focuses on the Mayor's recitation of the Treaty of Treason. Each year during the reaping, I wish that they would skip the Treaty of the Treason. It's long, excessively dull, and a painful reminder that two more children from District 12 are going to end up dead. Today, I don't want the Treaty to end, because it means facing the truth that's staring me in the face.
'Now, shake hands.'
I turn to face Gale, and the look in his eyes has changed. I know how much he hates the Treaty, how much he wishes death upon the Capitol. Now, there's an angry fire in his eyes. I fire that I can almost see reflected in my own.
We don't shake hands.
Gale pulls me into a tight, almost choking hug. A show of solidarity that has never been seen before in District 12. I know what that look means now.
We will not let the Capitol win.
…
'Neville Longbottom,' Voldemort sneered. '“The Chosen One.”' There was a mocking tone to the Dark Lord's words that Neville had heard a thousand times before. In the hallways after class, at the table during breakfast. People could scarcely believe that this boy that couldn't even remember where he'd left his toad was the one that would save them all.
Neville had heard it all. For years, he'd ignored the taunts, the jeers. The insinuations that the Wizarding World was as good as doomed if he was their best hope. He knew better than to rise to such things.
Mum and Dad had died for more than that.
He would be a hero, just like they were.
…
The year of the 74th Hunger Games, the tributes for District Seven were strong, fast, and somewhat intelligent. Both 17, and both fairly skilled with a weapon, they were the kind of tributes that turned into Victors. In the hands of the right mentor, they might have.
“You might go in thinking that you're going to let them all take each other out, but you can't afford to act like that. The last thing you want to do is hesitate.”
Johanna's heard the rumours - that winning the Games had turned her insane. She's not entirely sure that they're wrong. Bit by bit, the Capitol had systematically torn her life apart, until there was nothing left but the shreds of her psyche. There's a small part of her that knows that she had been broken long before then; killing in cold blood had come far too easily.
It would be better for them to die.
A quick, relatively painless death. They would die not knowing that the real pain comes from life.
So she tells them to fight.
With any luck, they'll get at least a few kills in - one last fleeting shot of hope before their lives ended.
She watches, emotionless, as the clock counts down in the square of the Capitol. Not many people from the Districts ever get to stand here. It's an honour that has long since faded.
The clock reaches zero, and the Hunger Games have begun.
Seventeen seconds.
That's how long it takes before her first Tribute is dead.
Two and a half minutes.
That's how long before the second one is, too.
Better luck next year, they'll say, but then, she already knows that this year is the luckiest she will ever be.
…
The first thing that Maria Hill learned when she became the Second-In-Command of S.H.I.E.L.D. was that Nick Fury played by Nick Fury's rules. He made unconventional decisions, and followed his gut, rather than any established rulebook. A lot of the time that irritated her to no end, but after the Tesseract Incident, she had to give him some credit. After all, he had effectively saved the world.
So she defends him against the Council, but she keeps her eyes open.
Sometime, in the future, there would come a day unlike any other, when Nick Fury made the wrong decision. On that day, she would be ready.