Fic: The Broken Wall, The Burning Roof and Tower (3/6)
Title: The Broken Wall, The Burning Roof and Tower (3/6)
Author dangerous_angel
Characters: Angelina Johnson, Fred Weasley, Montague.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: 15+
Summary: Angelina loses her voice.
A/N: AU
BUTTERFLIES AND HURRICANES
Montague’s owl was ugly. There was no ifs, ands, or buts, about it. The first time Angelina saw Dugan, she was so transfixed by his appearance that she’d forgotten to be annoyed or curious. The owl perched itself on the tree outside her window and glared disapprovingly at her. Obviously, the letter he carried was not from her friends or anyone she knew at Hogwarts. Most of their owls were harmless looking creatures, who always delivered their letters at the front door. She knew no one daring enough to send a letter directly to her.
When she let Dugan in, he circled her room before dropping Montague’s letter above her head so she had no choice but to catch it. Circling the room once more and giving her something like a smirk, the owl promptly flew out the window. Angelina was left staring at the envelope, wondering at it. She didn’t recognize the handwriting on the front.
She stared at the envelope for a long time, debating whether or not to open it. She had cut herself off from the outside world since she’d returned home. Her room had been her refuge, her world, for the past few weeks. Opening the letter would mean reconnecting with everything she was desperately trying to leave behind. She didn’t think she was ready for that, but she didn’t throw the letter on the stack that had quickly become a messy pile on her desk.
Her curiosity won out. The words were simple, short and without judgment or apology. She hadn’t ever thought of Montague as the type who’d know just exactly what to do or say. Then again, she didn’t even know him. She knew him as Montague, the Quidditch player, and Montague the Slytherin and therefore enemy. Most of the time she couldn’t even remember his first name. It seemed to her as if he didn’t have one. He’d never been a person to her until that night.
He’d stayed with her until she fell asleep, sitting by her bed and gripping his wand tightly. His usually vacant eyes were hard and full of anger. She’d wanted to tell him not to be angry. This thing that had happened to her need not concern him. It was her burden alone.
Looking at the parchment, she realized how wrong she’d been. It wasn’t her burden alone. She couldn’t imagine what it was like for Montague to see her like that. It couldn’t have been easy. It probably wasn’t something he was ever going to forget.
Feeling a little sick, Angelina sat on the edge of her bed, unsure of whether or not she wanted to cry or throw up. All these years she’d thought of Montague as beneath her, as just another Slytherin she’d rather see dead than happy. He’d been the one to take care of her during her most vulnerable moment. He hadn’t laughed at her or left her in the Tower. Months ago, she couldn’t have imagined him doing anything else.
Angelina hated herself for every similar thought she’d ever had about Montague. Couldn’t she do anything right?
With so much heavy emotions swirling in her it was a wonder she was able to hold her quill at all. Her reply was hasty, somewhat hysterical, incoherent and full of apologies. She sent it off immediately, not wanting to give herself time to pretend she’d never read Montague’s letter.
The reply came the next day.
Angelina,
You have nothing to apologize for, and if you do then I need to apologize as well. I am also guilty of not seeing you as anything but a Gryffindor and a moving target on the Quidditch pitch. When one perceives an enemy one also perceives someone who is inhuman. One could never survive or win a war if one were to see the other as anything else. Having said that, I’m unsure of how to proceed. The past few weeks have found me involuntarily speechless. Most people see me as the quiet sort who only speaks when I have something to say. I have many things to say, but I feel as if I don’t have the right audience or even the right words. I’ve wanted to speak to you since that night, but I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing. I wonder if you could lend me some of your Gryffindor courage so I could say what I need to, even if it’s wrong.
-Galen.
Angelina read the letter six times before she reached for her quill and parchment. Reading Montague’s letter and replying to it calmed and comforted her, reacquainting her with the idea of peace.
---->----
Angelina’s reply to his letter left Montague shaken and uneasy. The letter had been written in a nearly illegible script. It had taken him some time to decipher what she was trying to say, as the letter was so unfocused. Montague had never known Angelina to be unfocused. She was always precise to the point of abruptness. Small talk seemed to bore her and she always forced anyone having a conversation with her to get to the point of the matter. If they didn’t she stopped listening to them.
Weasley had done this to her, changed her so irrevocably that she would never be the person she once was, and Montague couldn’t understand why.
Weasley and Angelina had been one of the exemplary couples of Gryffindor. They’d been a shining light in the fog of the first post-war year. Both were Purebloods without prejudice, who would help guide others to salvation or some such nonsense.
From all appearances, they’d both appeared happy enough in the relationship. Fred’s moodiness was understandable and, at times, excusable, but this was not. It was unforgivable.
Montague still had not forgiven his father for all the years of torture his mother had endured with a smile and an apologetic expression. Previously, he’d thought torture was a strong word, but no more. Every day his father had never failed to insult or belittle his wife. Looking back, Montague wasn’t surprised she’d died at such an early age. She’d spent years neglecting herself, focusing everything, her body, her being, her magic on her husband. He’d become stronger and she’d died.
His mother’s death had been one of those earth-shattering, life changing moments. He’d realized the world was not so simple. He’d stopped seeing with the eyes of a child and started to look with the eyes of a half-grown man.
His mother’s death was what had prevented him from being sorted into any of the other Houses. He could not see the world in terms of black and white, the courageous and the cowards, like the Gryffindors. He couldn’t see through rose-coloured lenses like the Hufflepuffs, nor could he see the world with practical eyes like the Ravenclaws. Slytherins saw the word in shades of grey and slanted angles to be exploited at every opportunity.
Montague had never regretted his sorting no matter how it had come about. Despite what others thought, Slytherin was a respectable House. He’d always felt safe in the dungeons, among others who were like him.
But soon he would have to leave. School was ending in a few months and he’d have to find safety elsewhere. There was a large, scary world outside Hogwarts where his sorting would only be one of many things that defined him. Beyond the British shores there was an even larger world where the idea of being sorted was as foreign as he was.
Angelina was part of that world now. Whatever apprehension he’d felt about leaving school was dissipating with that knowledge. He’d always had a grudging respect for Angelina, but he’d never wanted to get to know her in any capacity, until now. She was more than what he’d always believed. How much more was something he wanted to discover, right along with the world that was beyond the dungeons.
Notes
Title of the part taken from Muse’s “Butterflies and Hurricanes” from their album Absolution.
Part 4
Author dangerous_angel
Characters: Angelina Johnson, Fred Weasley, Montague.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: 15+
Summary: Angelina loses her voice.
A/N: AU
BUTTERFLIES AND HURRICANES
Montague’s owl was ugly. There was no ifs, ands, or buts, about it. The first time Angelina saw Dugan, she was so transfixed by his appearance that she’d forgotten to be annoyed or curious. The owl perched itself on the tree outside her window and glared disapprovingly at her. Obviously, the letter he carried was not from her friends or anyone she knew at Hogwarts. Most of their owls were harmless looking creatures, who always delivered their letters at the front door. She knew no one daring enough to send a letter directly to her.
When she let Dugan in, he circled her room before dropping Montague’s letter above her head so she had no choice but to catch it. Circling the room once more and giving her something like a smirk, the owl promptly flew out the window. Angelina was left staring at the envelope, wondering at it. She didn’t recognize the handwriting on the front.
She stared at the envelope for a long time, debating whether or not to open it. She had cut herself off from the outside world since she’d returned home. Her room had been her refuge, her world, for the past few weeks. Opening the letter would mean reconnecting with everything she was desperately trying to leave behind. She didn’t think she was ready for that, but she didn’t throw the letter on the stack that had quickly become a messy pile on her desk.
Her curiosity won out. The words were simple, short and without judgment or apology. She hadn’t ever thought of Montague as the type who’d know just exactly what to do or say. Then again, she didn’t even know him. She knew him as Montague, the Quidditch player, and Montague the Slytherin and therefore enemy. Most of the time she couldn’t even remember his first name. It seemed to her as if he didn’t have one. He’d never been a person to her until that night.
He’d stayed with her until she fell asleep, sitting by her bed and gripping his wand tightly. His usually vacant eyes were hard and full of anger. She’d wanted to tell him not to be angry. This thing that had happened to her need not concern him. It was her burden alone.
Looking at the parchment, she realized how wrong she’d been. It wasn’t her burden alone. She couldn’t imagine what it was like for Montague to see her like that. It couldn’t have been easy. It probably wasn’t something he was ever going to forget.
Feeling a little sick, Angelina sat on the edge of her bed, unsure of whether or not she wanted to cry or throw up. All these years she’d thought of Montague as beneath her, as just another Slytherin she’d rather see dead than happy. He’d been the one to take care of her during her most vulnerable moment. He hadn’t laughed at her or left her in the Tower. Months ago, she couldn’t have imagined him doing anything else.
Angelina hated herself for every similar thought she’d ever had about Montague. Couldn’t she do anything right?
With so much heavy emotions swirling in her it was a wonder she was able to hold her quill at all. Her reply was hasty, somewhat hysterical, incoherent and full of apologies. She sent it off immediately, not wanting to give herself time to pretend she’d never read Montague’s letter.
The reply came the next day.
Angelina,
You have nothing to apologize for, and if you do then I need to apologize as well. I am also guilty of not seeing you as anything but a Gryffindor and a moving target on the Quidditch pitch. When one perceives an enemy one also perceives someone who is inhuman. One could never survive or win a war if one were to see the other as anything else. Having said that, I’m unsure of how to proceed. The past few weeks have found me involuntarily speechless. Most people see me as the quiet sort who only speaks when I have something to say. I have many things to say, but I feel as if I don’t have the right audience or even the right words. I’ve wanted to speak to you since that night, but I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing. I wonder if you could lend me some of your Gryffindor courage so I could say what I need to, even if it’s wrong.
-Galen.
Angelina read the letter six times before she reached for her quill and parchment. Reading Montague’s letter and replying to it calmed and comforted her, reacquainting her with the idea of peace.
---->----
Angelina’s reply to his letter left Montague shaken and uneasy. The letter had been written in a nearly illegible script. It had taken him some time to decipher what she was trying to say, as the letter was so unfocused. Montague had never known Angelina to be unfocused. She was always precise to the point of abruptness. Small talk seemed to bore her and she always forced anyone having a conversation with her to get to the point of the matter. If they didn’t she stopped listening to them.
Weasley had done this to her, changed her so irrevocably that she would never be the person she once was, and Montague couldn’t understand why.
Weasley and Angelina had been one of the exemplary couples of Gryffindor. They’d been a shining light in the fog of the first post-war year. Both were Purebloods without prejudice, who would help guide others to salvation or some such nonsense.
From all appearances, they’d both appeared happy enough in the relationship. Fred’s moodiness was understandable and, at times, excusable, but this was not. It was unforgivable.
Montague still had not forgiven his father for all the years of torture his mother had endured with a smile and an apologetic expression. Previously, he’d thought torture was a strong word, but no more. Every day his father had never failed to insult or belittle his wife. Looking back, Montague wasn’t surprised she’d died at such an early age. She’d spent years neglecting herself, focusing everything, her body, her being, her magic on her husband. He’d become stronger and she’d died.
His mother’s death had been one of those earth-shattering, life changing moments. He’d realized the world was not so simple. He’d stopped seeing with the eyes of a child and started to look with the eyes of a half-grown man.
His mother’s death was what had prevented him from being sorted into any of the other Houses. He could not see the world in terms of black and white, the courageous and the cowards, like the Gryffindors. He couldn’t see through rose-coloured lenses like the Hufflepuffs, nor could he see the world with practical eyes like the Ravenclaws. Slytherins saw the word in shades of grey and slanted angles to be exploited at every opportunity.
Montague had never regretted his sorting no matter how it had come about. Despite what others thought, Slytherin was a respectable House. He’d always felt safe in the dungeons, among others who were like him.
But soon he would have to leave. School was ending in a few months and he’d have to find safety elsewhere. There was a large, scary world outside Hogwarts where his sorting would only be one of many things that defined him. Beyond the British shores there was an even larger world where the idea of being sorted was as foreign as he was.
Angelina was part of that world now. Whatever apprehension he’d felt about leaving school was dissipating with that knowledge. He’d always had a grudging respect for Angelina, but he’d never wanted to get to know her in any capacity, until now. She was more than what he’d always believed. How much more was something he wanted to discover, right along with the world that was beyond the dungeons.
Notes
Title of the part taken from Muse’s “Butterflies and Hurricanes” from their album Absolution.
Part 4