(no subject)
Who: Angelina Johnson
Where: Her flat.
When: Late November 18
Status: Complete
Angelina was cold. She'd been sitting in that one seat since the afternoon, and she hadn't been able to find it in herself to get up.
The fire in her living room burned brighter than ever, casting an orange glow around the room, but inside, she was colder than ice. Nothing could describe how she'd felt when she'd gotten her copy of yesterday's afternoon edition of the paper and had seen her sister's name, seeing her be blamed along with another for the attack on Voldemort. Scapegoats were all they were. Their names taken and used so that someone could be to blame. Angelina bet no one even knew what her sister looked like, but just because it would be easy, they'd chosen her.
And today she'd stood there and watched her sister be executed. She'd gone because staying away would have been impossible. She'd seen the fright on her sister's face. And the anger as she was called name after name for a crime she didn't even commit. And she thought - she couldn't have imagined it, it had felt too real for her to have imagined it - that, right before, Olivia had looked at her, seen her there and knew she still cared. She had to have known, because if she hadn't...
The paper still sat on her desk, the photo glaring at her, as if proof that she should have done something a long time ago. And maybe she should have. Maybe I still can.
She stared at it the fire for a long while, her gaze hard as she imagined "Auror" after "Auror," every single pitiful minion of Voldemort falling from the damage of her wand. The fact that it would be impossible to do didn't even faze her.
And while the image eased her guilt for only a moment, it didn't warm her, and the smile that crossed her face held none of the joy it used to convey - but war changed people, and not always for the better. This was a perfect example of it, and Angelina sat back in her seat, her voice smug.
"The next time they say a Johnson was involved in an attack, they'll be telling the truth."
Where: Her flat.
When: Late November 18
Status: Complete
Angelina was cold. She'd been sitting in that one seat since the afternoon, and she hadn't been able to find it in herself to get up.
The fire in her living room burned brighter than ever, casting an orange glow around the room, but inside, she was colder than ice. Nothing could describe how she'd felt when she'd gotten her copy of yesterday's afternoon edition of the paper and had seen her sister's name, seeing her be blamed along with another for the attack on Voldemort. Scapegoats were all they were. Their names taken and used so that someone could be to blame. Angelina bet no one even knew what her sister looked like, but just because it would be easy, they'd chosen her.
And today she'd stood there and watched her sister be executed. She'd gone because staying away would have been impossible. She'd seen the fright on her sister's face. And the anger as she was called name after name for a crime she didn't even commit. And she thought - she couldn't have imagined it, it had felt too real for her to have imagined it - that, right before, Olivia had looked at her, seen her there and knew she still cared. She had to have known, because if she hadn't...
The paper still sat on her desk, the photo glaring at her, as if proof that she should have done something a long time ago. And maybe she should have. Maybe I still can.
She stared at it the fire for a long while, her gaze hard as she imagined "Auror" after "Auror," every single pitiful minion of Voldemort falling from the damage of her wand. The fact that it would be impossible to do didn't even faze her.
And while the image eased her guilt for only a moment, it didn't warm her, and the smile that crossed her face held none of the joy it used to convey - but war changed people, and not always for the better. This was a perfect example of it, and Angelina sat back in her seat, her voice smug.
"The next time they say a Johnson was involved in an attack, they'll be telling the truth."