Before the Dawn
TITLE: Before the Dawn
FANDOM: Harry Potter (kind of. more Race to the Finish, really.)
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: The war is over, and Stephen Stebbins is coming home.
The fic stands as it is for now, though my hope is that herophelia will get her arse online and play some sceneage with me.
-----------------------
The blank boards stared him down coldly, facelessly. They robbed the place of all the personality it had once had.
Stephen stood on the sidewalk, staring right back. Anyone who might have passed by would probably think he was crazy-this young man, face weathered and hair falling out far before their time, staring quite intently at the space between two buildings. But there was no one to see. No passers-by, no drivers on the road. Edinburgh was quiet as the grave, with the smell of it too.
Stephen hardly noticed the smell anymore, though the crackling of the cellophane cover sounded unusually loud as it came off the box of cigarettes. On his way there, he’d noticed a chemist with the windows blown out, boxes and pills spilled over the floor.
The lighter he used to light the fag was plain, clear plastic. Faceless, like everything else now. He took his first breath of carbon monoxide in months, and let it run deep-then let the smoke roll slowly over his tongue, savoring the bitter taste.
Once that was done, it was down to work. The boards were nailed deep into the doorframe. It had been more difficult to locate a crowbar than cigarettes, but he’d managed it, and was about to be very glad for it. As the wood creaked and groaned, and the nails were worked free, Stephen found part of his mind still watching from the outside-as each board was thrown aside, he imagined through muggle eyes seeing a 2-by-4 suddenly appear out of nowhere and clatter to the ground.
Even now, they had no idea what had been happening to them. The bursts of death, the men muttering strange words and waving wands had come from the same place as the 2-by-4s and would mean just about as much. They would spend the whole rest of their lives knowing that something had happened to them, and never having just the right logic to explain it.
Because nothing really changed once the war was over. The wizarding world was dusting itself off and retreating back to secrecy, and the muggles back to their blissful ignorance. Stephen let this thought keep repeating in his head as he worked. The frustration gave him strength.
The first cigarette was down to a stump, and fell from his lips only when he felt it burning them. He didn’t stop to light another one.
Then, miraculously, there was an opening big enough to climb through. If it had been daylight, the slits between pieces of wood would have illuminated the inside at least a little. But as it was, the light outside was dimming fast, and the Imp’s Inn was black as night. A wandless spell, cast in silence, gave just enough light to see comfortably. Stephen eyed the light suspiciously as it rose.
The place was relatively unharmed-probably because there’d been no one here to kill. A few bottles had burst or been smashed, staining everything with broken glass and the smell of stale alcohol, but that was the worst of the damage. He smelled the faintest hint of something burnt, and noticed suddenly that despite the broken bottles, everything was dry, and the edges of anything wooden had been darkened to a crisp black. They’d tried to burn the place down.
That brought something approaching a smile to his face. His last line of defense, at least, had worked. He toed a piece of glass, then kicked it across the room, listening to it stumble around and come to rest.
He moved toward the bar, eyeing the bottles for any left unbroken. The first thing to catch his eye was a Johnnie Walker, black label. Blended whiskey. It’d do. He set everything up carefully, first putting down the crowbar so he wouldn’t have to bother with it, then choosing a glass and placing it in a precise spot on the bar.
He considered a moment, then set up a second glass across from where he sat. The whiskey was poured-in both glasses. He raised his to the empty room. Broken, but not defeated. There was probably a lesson there. Maybe.
The toast was drunk-Stephen let the heat run down his throat as long as he could. Then he refreshed his glass, then leaned forward, staring once again at nothing. Except this time there really was nothing there. Not yet, in any case. Stephen tried not to hope too hard that that would change soon.
All he could do for now was light another cigarette, and wait to find out if anyone else was alive.
FANDOM: Harry Potter (kind of. more Race to the Finish, really.)
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: The war is over, and Stephen Stebbins is coming home.
The fic stands as it is for now, though my hope is that herophelia will get her arse online and play some sceneage with me.
-----------------------
The blank boards stared him down coldly, facelessly. They robbed the place of all the personality it had once had.
Stephen stood on the sidewalk, staring right back. Anyone who might have passed by would probably think he was crazy-this young man, face weathered and hair falling out far before their time, staring quite intently at the space between two buildings. But there was no one to see. No passers-by, no drivers on the road. Edinburgh was quiet as the grave, with the smell of it too.
Stephen hardly noticed the smell anymore, though the crackling of the cellophane cover sounded unusually loud as it came off the box of cigarettes. On his way there, he’d noticed a chemist with the windows blown out, boxes and pills spilled over the floor.
The lighter he used to light the fag was plain, clear plastic. Faceless, like everything else now. He took his first breath of carbon monoxide in months, and let it run deep-then let the smoke roll slowly over his tongue, savoring the bitter taste.
Once that was done, it was down to work. The boards were nailed deep into the doorframe. It had been more difficult to locate a crowbar than cigarettes, but he’d managed it, and was about to be very glad for it. As the wood creaked and groaned, and the nails were worked free, Stephen found part of his mind still watching from the outside-as each board was thrown aside, he imagined through muggle eyes seeing a 2-by-4 suddenly appear out of nowhere and clatter to the ground.
Even now, they had no idea what had been happening to them. The bursts of death, the men muttering strange words and waving wands had come from the same place as the 2-by-4s and would mean just about as much. They would spend the whole rest of their lives knowing that something had happened to them, and never having just the right logic to explain it.
Because nothing really changed once the war was over. The wizarding world was dusting itself off and retreating back to secrecy, and the muggles back to their blissful ignorance. Stephen let this thought keep repeating in his head as he worked. The frustration gave him strength.
The first cigarette was down to a stump, and fell from his lips only when he felt it burning them. He didn’t stop to light another one.
Then, miraculously, there was an opening big enough to climb through. If it had been daylight, the slits between pieces of wood would have illuminated the inside at least a little. But as it was, the light outside was dimming fast, and the Imp’s Inn was black as night. A wandless spell, cast in silence, gave just enough light to see comfortably. Stephen eyed the light suspiciously as it rose.
The place was relatively unharmed-probably because there’d been no one here to kill. A few bottles had burst or been smashed, staining everything with broken glass and the smell of stale alcohol, but that was the worst of the damage. He smelled the faintest hint of something burnt, and noticed suddenly that despite the broken bottles, everything was dry, and the edges of anything wooden had been darkened to a crisp black. They’d tried to burn the place down.
That brought something approaching a smile to his face. His last line of defense, at least, had worked. He toed a piece of glass, then kicked it across the room, listening to it stumble around and come to rest.
He moved toward the bar, eyeing the bottles for any left unbroken. The first thing to catch his eye was a Johnnie Walker, black label. Blended whiskey. It’d do. He set everything up carefully, first putting down the crowbar so he wouldn’t have to bother with it, then choosing a glass and placing it in a precise spot on the bar.
He considered a moment, then set up a second glass across from where he sat. The whiskey was poured-in both glasses. He raised his to the empty room. Broken, but not defeated. There was probably a lesson there. Maybe.
The toast was drunk-Stephen let the heat run down his throat as long as he could. Then he refreshed his glass, then leaned forward, staring once again at nothing. Except this time there really was nothing there. Not yet, in any case. Stephen tried not to hope too hard that that would change soon.
All he could do for now was light another cigarette, and wait to find out if anyone else was alive.