(no subject)
Who: Charlie Weasley
Where: Order HQ
When: Evening of 2 June, 2001
Status: Complete
The storm broke overhead in earnest, unleashing it's fury in great gusts that shook the house. The rain followed soon after, assaulting the window with a tempo so fierce that it became a roar, lances of lightning a visual counterpoint to the tempest.
OneMerlin'sBeard, TwoMerlin'sBeard, Three-
The thunder crashed, and the vibration of the window against Charlie's cheek became more so for a moment before it dropped back into the chaotic hum of the drumming rain. He was alone.
Hermione had stared daggers; Ron had given him a sad look, the defiance he'd radiated earlier tempered by compassion or resolve or nostalgia, something that his older brother couldn't quite place, but understood all the same. It was commitment to madness, the result of hours of circular reasoning. What happened to you after you've disagreed with something so long that you've found yourself agreeing.
Charlie remembered a letter from Mum, sent to him during the chaos before the Triwizard (so distinct from the chaos after), which had cemented his opinion of Harry. Or rather, it was watching the boy fly rings around the big old bitch of a Ridgeback that had really endeared him to Potter, but the letter - the casual inclusion of Harry's news along with Ginny's and the Twins' - had made him think that maybe there was more to the boy than tousled hair and a scar, something to the story of the Boy Who Lived.
The papers rarely called him by name anymore. Charlie hadn't failed to catch the irony of it all, the way names had power, the way men had gone out of their way to avoid saying 'Voldemort' for decades in fear that it would bring him back. No longer. Now, when the Prophet referred to You Know Who, it was Harry they meant. The Boy Who Died.
But no - Penelope had mentioned it, almost in passing. He'd made himself a horocrux (a revolting thought), and as such would never die. Not unless it were to be found and destroyed. Which they'd never forgive him for, and understandably. It was one thing to disagree with the very idea of bringing Potter back, but it was another to - in effect - kill him.
...assuming, of course, that he could find the Dursley household, and get past the wards placed on the remains of the firebolt, and then how would you go about destroying such a thing...
The rain drowned out his thoughts, numbed him to the core 'till he could feel himself drifting off in the darkness of the hall. Distant noises of people like ghosts echoed through the open doorway, footprints in dust ancient and complicated choreography for a waltzing incantation. A rain dance, a plea to Olympus and the Christian God to flood the earth again and wipe away the sinners, the evil and strife. Tabula Rasa, power-wash it clean 'till it sparkled in the distant sun, a pearl in a string of planets, aligned like something out of Trelawney's wet dream, peace and love for everyone.
Where: Order HQ
When: Evening of 2 June, 2001
Status: Complete
The storm broke overhead in earnest, unleashing it's fury in great gusts that shook the house. The rain followed soon after, assaulting the window with a tempo so fierce that it became a roar, lances of lightning a visual counterpoint to the tempest.
OneMerlin'sBeard, TwoMerlin'sBeard, Three-
The thunder crashed, and the vibration of the window against Charlie's cheek became more so for a moment before it dropped back into the chaotic hum of the drumming rain. He was alone.
Hermione had stared daggers; Ron had given him a sad look, the defiance he'd radiated earlier tempered by compassion or resolve or nostalgia, something that his older brother couldn't quite place, but understood all the same. It was commitment to madness, the result of hours of circular reasoning. What happened to you after you've disagreed with something so long that you've found yourself agreeing.
Charlie remembered a letter from Mum, sent to him during the chaos before the Triwizard (so distinct from the chaos after), which had cemented his opinion of Harry. Or rather, it was watching the boy fly rings around the big old bitch of a Ridgeback that had really endeared him to Potter, but the letter - the casual inclusion of Harry's news along with Ginny's and the Twins' - had made him think that maybe there was more to the boy than tousled hair and a scar, something to the story of the Boy Who Lived.
The papers rarely called him by name anymore. Charlie hadn't failed to catch the irony of it all, the way names had power, the way men had gone out of their way to avoid saying 'Voldemort' for decades in fear that it would bring him back. No longer. Now, when the Prophet referred to You Know Who, it was Harry they meant. The Boy Who Died.
But no - Penelope had mentioned it, almost in passing. He'd made himself a horocrux (a revolting thought), and as such would never die. Not unless it were to be found and destroyed. Which they'd never forgive him for, and understandably. It was one thing to disagree with the very idea of bringing Potter back, but it was another to - in effect - kill him.
...assuming, of course, that he could find the Dursley household, and get past the wards placed on the remains of the firebolt, and then how would you go about destroying such a thing...
The rain drowned out his thoughts, numbed him to the core 'till he could feel himself drifting off in the darkness of the hall. Distant noises of people like ghosts echoed through the open doorway, footprints in dust ancient and complicated choreography for a waltzing incantation. A rain dance, a plea to Olympus and the Christian God to flood the earth again and wipe away the sinners, the evil and strife. Tabula Rasa, power-wash it clean 'till it sparkled in the distant sun, a pearl in a string of planets, aligned like something out of Trelawney's wet dream, peace and love for everyone.