closed: fucking azkaban
Azkaban.
Fucking Azkaban.
If there was one place he had never in a million years expected to find himself lining up to visit, this was most definitely it. Even with the Dementors gone, there was a lingering eeriness about the place, a soul-crushing sort of dampness that sank right into your bones and chilled your very soul, as if the prison's previous guardians had somehow managed to imbibe the entire island with their blood-curdling essence.
But as uncomfortable as it might be on his side, idly fiddling with the bit of string that had unravelled from the edge of his sleeve as the unsavory looking witch behind the desk went about filling in a few forms, her quill scratching sharply against the parchment interrupted only by the occasional distasteful glare she threw up at him from behind the greasy slick of her bangs, George needed only to remember the reason for which he was here in the first place to forget his discomfort and instead be overwhelmed by a whole different kind of gut-wrenching anxiety.
Somewhere behind those walls, down same damn hallways and past rows of locks and barred doors and gruff guards, in some bloody cell, was Cecilia.
Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four bloody hours since she had been taken away, since Susan had come barging into the shop with the news, since he had been told that there was some stupid policy that meant that he couldn't see or speak to her, couldn't even get any kind of proper, straightforward information about anything at all. He hadn't even considered sleeping, and would have likely forgotten to eat, too, if he hadn't found Picard waiting expectantly by his empty bowl when he finally made it home the previous evening.
The sight of the little guy's wrinkled face hadn't done much to take his mind away from the way his heart just wasn't sitting right, thumping crookedly with either anger or fear or worry or confusion (he'd been rotating through emotions like it was some sort of spin-the-wheel game), but it had at least gotten him to heat up leftovers and given him a reason to sit still for a few hours after the tiny pup had crawled up onto his lap, lapped at his hands almost hesitantly and without his usual flailing enthusiasm, as if he could somehow sense that something was off, that this was no time for play time, and eventually fallen asleep curled up in the middle of his chest.
After what seemed like another eternity, the witch across the desk finally slid a tattered visitor's badge towards him, nodded towards the door at the corner of the room, and motioned for the guard that had been waiting just inside to take over.
Beyond the heavy barred door, George was led down a few twists and turns of the hallway before the stoic wizard ahead of him finally pushed open another door and motioned him inside.
"Wait here-"
Then the door was slamming shut behind him, and he was alone again to continue tugging at the wayward string and chewing through what was left of the torn up inside of his lip-
Fucking Azkaban.
If there was one place he had never in a million years expected to find himself lining up to visit, this was most definitely it. Even with the Dementors gone, there was a lingering eeriness about the place, a soul-crushing sort of dampness that sank right into your bones and chilled your very soul, as if the prison's previous guardians had somehow managed to imbibe the entire island with their blood-curdling essence.
But as uncomfortable as it might be on his side, idly fiddling with the bit of string that had unravelled from the edge of his sleeve as the unsavory looking witch behind the desk went about filling in a few forms, her quill scratching sharply against the parchment interrupted only by the occasional distasteful glare she threw up at him from behind the greasy slick of her bangs, George needed only to remember the reason for which he was here in the first place to forget his discomfort and instead be overwhelmed by a whole different kind of gut-wrenching anxiety.
Somewhere behind those walls, down same damn hallways and past rows of locks and barred doors and gruff guards, in some bloody cell, was Cecilia.
Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four bloody hours since she had been taken away, since Susan had come barging into the shop with the news, since he had been told that there was some stupid policy that meant that he couldn't see or speak to her, couldn't even get any kind of proper, straightforward information about anything at all. He hadn't even considered sleeping, and would have likely forgotten to eat, too, if he hadn't found Picard waiting expectantly by his empty bowl when he finally made it home the previous evening.
The sight of the little guy's wrinkled face hadn't done much to take his mind away from the way his heart just wasn't sitting right, thumping crookedly with either anger or fear or worry or confusion (he'd been rotating through emotions like it was some sort of spin-the-wheel game), but it had at least gotten him to heat up leftovers and given him a reason to sit still for a few hours after the tiny pup had crawled up onto his lap, lapped at his hands almost hesitantly and without his usual flailing enthusiasm, as if he could somehow sense that something was off, that this was no time for play time, and eventually fallen asleep curled up in the middle of his chest.
After what seemed like another eternity, the witch across the desk finally slid a tattered visitor's badge towards him, nodded towards the door at the corner of the room, and motioned for the guard that had been waiting just inside to take over.
Beyond the heavy barred door, George was led down a few twists and turns of the hallway before the stoic wizard ahead of him finally pushed open another door and motioned him inside.
"Wait here-"
Then the door was slamming shut behind him, and he was alone again to continue tugging at the wayward string and chewing through what was left of the torn up inside of his lip-