(no subject)
Who: Charlie Weasley
Where: In the North
When: 6 February, 2001, very early morning
Status: Complete
The window was fogged ever-so-slightly, breath condensing around old fingerprints and bits of words like talismans to keep the night at bay. A car passed in the distance. Stars shone dully in the sky, beyond the mottled pane and the thin layer of clouds like gauze like the dress Sarah Hudges wore to the ball in fifth year with the water-blue silk and sapphires in her hair and how he'd longed, earnestly, to whisper in her ear as he ran his fingers through her auburn curls and watch the gems fall like raindrops and that's how love felt.
Not like this.
This was sitting alone in an abandoned van, writing letters to Ginny that said things like 'I'm sorry' and 'Forgive me' and 'I'm still alive'. It was wearing five layers of coats and rags to stay warm on a night where the moon shone small and frozen in the sky, with only a gaunt old barn owl to keep him company. It was the deep, uncentered feeling that gnawed like hunger in his belly; it was the fear that even when he came back, he'd never belong. It was uncertainty. It was loneliness. It was the wavering resolve to bother with living, a hunger for change so strong that it gave him nightmares of the beautiful world that could be if he only walked a few more miles the next day, staved off the hunger, found some way to make things better.
He shivered violently, sending his stub of a quill in an erratic path across the parchment. It made a faint line, indistinguishable from the unsteady scratchings above it, and his eyes welled up with frustrated tears. The owl cooed quietly, sounding empty in the passenger seat, surveying its erratic human companion suspiciously. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his fingerless glove, and shivered again.
"Nox" The light of his wand fell dim, and it only took a few moments for his eyes to become accustomed to the night's ambient glow. It was enough for him to see by, to carefully fold the too-dry parchment into quarters, then eights, and put it in one of the inner pockets of his battered jacket. Enough to be able to grope at the rusty handle of the passenger door's window and roll it down enough for the owl to take the hint, and hop-fly out into the darkness. He rolled it up again quickly, then groped around in the back for the heavy woolen blanket he'd nicked from a farmhouse a few days back.
Before he put the seat back into its reclining position, he drew a line a short vertical line in the thick dust of the dash with the tip of his wand, then tapped it. "Temporalis Solus" A faint light flared for a moment, and the line in the dust seemed to cast a shadow a little to its right. Which meant it was around one in the morning. Almost time for breakfast, as his father used to say. Father. On his mind as he drifted in the frigid night, a face swimming in the foreground of a sea of troubled memories and fractured dreams.
Father.
Somewhere in Charlie's perfect nightmares, Arthur Weasley smiled hazily from his place on the wall, watching his sons and daughter; granddaughter and friends. Watched with contented bemusement as they celebrated his birthday in the Burrow, laughed at the memories, became misty-eyed at the stories... found peace as he looked on.
"Temporalis Solace."
Where: In the North
When: 6 February, 2001, very early morning
Status: Complete
The window was fogged ever-so-slightly, breath condensing around old fingerprints and bits of words like talismans to keep the night at bay. A car passed in the distance. Stars shone dully in the sky, beyond the mottled pane and the thin layer of clouds like gauze like the dress Sarah Hudges wore to the ball in fifth year with the water-blue silk and sapphires in her hair and how he'd longed, earnestly, to whisper in her ear as he ran his fingers through her auburn curls and watch the gems fall like raindrops and that's how love felt.
Not like this.
This was sitting alone in an abandoned van, writing letters to Ginny that said things like 'I'm sorry' and 'Forgive me' and 'I'm still alive'. It was wearing five layers of coats and rags to stay warm on a night where the moon shone small and frozen in the sky, with only a gaunt old barn owl to keep him company. It was the deep, uncentered feeling that gnawed like hunger in his belly; it was the fear that even when he came back, he'd never belong. It was uncertainty. It was loneliness. It was the wavering resolve to bother with living, a hunger for change so strong that it gave him nightmares of the beautiful world that could be if he only walked a few more miles the next day, staved off the hunger, found some way to make things better.
He shivered violently, sending his stub of a quill in an erratic path across the parchment. It made a faint line, indistinguishable from the unsteady scratchings above it, and his eyes welled up with frustrated tears. The owl cooed quietly, sounding empty in the passenger seat, surveying its erratic human companion suspiciously. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his fingerless glove, and shivered again.
"Nox" The light of his wand fell dim, and it only took a few moments for his eyes to become accustomed to the night's ambient glow. It was enough for him to see by, to carefully fold the too-dry parchment into quarters, then eights, and put it in one of the inner pockets of his battered jacket. Enough to be able to grope at the rusty handle of the passenger door's window and roll it down enough for the owl to take the hint, and hop-fly out into the darkness. He rolled it up again quickly, then groped around in the back for the heavy woolen blanket he'd nicked from a farmhouse a few days back.
Before he put the seat back into its reclining position, he drew a line a short vertical line in the thick dust of the dash with the tip of his wand, then tapped it. "Temporalis Solus" A faint light flared for a moment, and the line in the dust seemed to cast a shadow a little to its right. Which meant it was around one in the morning. Almost time for breakfast, as his father used to say. Father. On his mind as he drifted in the frigid night, a face swimming in the foreground of a sea of troubled memories and fractured dreams.
Father.
Somewhere in Charlie's perfect nightmares, Arthur Weasley smiled hazily from his place on the wall, watching his sons and daughter; granddaughter and friends. Watched with contented bemusement as they celebrated his birthday in the Burrow, laughed at the memories, became misty-eyed at the stories... found peace as he looked on.
"Temporalis Solace."