(no subject)
Who: Arthur and Percy Weasley
Where: Budleigh Salterton/A seemingly abandoned cemetary near Dover.
When: 15th-17th August, 2001.
Status: Complete
It was no use.
Arthur had whittled away the hours in the garage, even taken up swimming again and pushed his way out to the buoys until his arms flopped by his sides. He had spent his evenings helping out the old dears in the bungalows by the school and even still, nothing that he did could stop him thinking about them. His children. Which of them had been there? Which of them were even alive? It grated upon him, day by day, the guilt that he had repressed for so long with the ache at the loss of Molly. It welled up inside him until, one rainy day, Arthur packed his bag and rang his boss. The man was all too happy to give Arthur the holiday he hadn't taken in all of his years there, even though it was such short notice, and wished him well on his camping holiday.
Arthur would hardly call it a holiday. Taking the bus to Exeter, he made his way through an entire magazine of crosswords before they reached Paddington. Being in London terrified him - the idea of the proximity to his children, or to his wife's killer - none of these seemed like particularly appetising prospects. So it was with relief that he boarded the train at Victoria, and slept the two hour train journey to Dover. Unfolding his trusty Brompton, Arthur cycled the short distance to the graveyard. Several years of hiding his position had not taught him nothing; he secreted himself in a nearby common, from where he had a clear view of his grave, and began to wait.
Rain soaked him to the bone, wind chilled him like ice, and the sun burnt his already darkened skin. Yet Arthur remained there, stoic, waiting for the day that one of them - one of his most precious children - would come for him.
He did not have to wait very long.
Where: Budleigh Salterton/A seemingly abandoned cemetary near Dover.
When: 15th-17th August, 2001.
Status: Complete
It was no use.
Arthur had whittled away the hours in the garage, even taken up swimming again and pushed his way out to the buoys until his arms flopped by his sides. He had spent his evenings helping out the old dears in the bungalows by the school and even still, nothing that he did could stop him thinking about them. His children. Which of them had been there? Which of them were even alive? It grated upon him, day by day, the guilt that he had repressed for so long with the ache at the loss of Molly. It welled up inside him until, one rainy day, Arthur packed his bag and rang his boss. The man was all too happy to give Arthur the holiday he hadn't taken in all of his years there, even though it was such short notice, and wished him well on his camping holiday.
Arthur would hardly call it a holiday. Taking the bus to Exeter, he made his way through an entire magazine of crosswords before they reached Paddington. Being in London terrified him - the idea of the proximity to his children, or to his wife's killer - none of these seemed like particularly appetising prospects. So it was with relief that he boarded the train at Victoria, and slept the two hour train journey to Dover. Unfolding his trusty Brompton, Arthur cycled the short distance to the graveyard. Several years of hiding his position had not taught him nothing; he secreted himself in a nearby common, from where he had a clear view of his grave, and began to wait.
Rain soaked him to the bone, wind chilled him like ice, and the sun burnt his already darkened skin. Yet Arthur remained there, stoic, waiting for the day that one of them - one of his most precious children - would come for him.
He did not have to wait very long.