Half Dead, scene ii
There's a special place in hell reserved for me, and I know it, thankyouverymuch. In penance, I shall say 16 "Hail Dumbledore's" and spend five sleepless nights writing fanfic in which good triumphs over evil.
And can I just say, feedback, please!, because I've posted the first bit in about eight places, and the lack of comments is deafening. I have to know that someone thinks or feels something about this piece.
He couldn't think -- couldn't remember. His wand was clutched tight in his hand, but he looked at it without seeing it. Magic was a word he knew without comprehending. In his right mind, he could have apparated back to the Order's headquarters in seconds, but as he was -- crazed with grief and denial -- it took him the better part of a day to make his way to the house on foot.
It was nearly dark by the time he reached its foreboding facade. Stumbling up to the door, he beat and scratched at it until it was opened. He staggered in, no even looking to see who had opened the door, covering his ears to block out the screeching of the painting in the hallway that looked too much like the last face he could remember seeing.
He half-fell into the sitting room, crawled on hands and knees to the space between the sofa and the wall, and squeezed himself into it, and huddled there, shivering.
There were voices. People were gathering around him, peering at him, speaking to him. He looked up at them with the eyes of a wounded and terrified animal. They quickly saw that they would get no response from him, and began talking amongst themselves.
"... contact Molly and Arthur?"
"... never seen him look like this."
"Where's ...?"
"... seen one without ..."
"What can have happened?"
Then, suddenly, there was a sharp, belligerent face very close to his, a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, one black eye, and one milky blue eye searching his face, and a voice. "Weasley? Weasley, pull yourself together. You must tell us what's happened. Where's your brother?"
"I've got five ..." he mumbled.
"Weasley, your parents have been summoned. If something's happened to your brother, we must know. Where is he? Has he fallen into enemy hands?"
He was vaguely aware that a few members of the Order were putting on cloaks and checking for their wands. They were standing near the door, waiting for a word from him. Waiting for him to tell them where to go.
"Knock -- Knockturn Alley," he whispered at last.
"You heard him, lads," Mad-Eye Moody said grimly.
As the rescue party turned towards the door, he put out a hand. "No, wait! No, it's too late ... too late!" his voice sounded unnaturally high. "He's dead."
A silence descended upon the room, and all he could hear was the gasping sound of his own breathing. Everyone was staring at him, as if transfixed.
Then, with a soft bamf, there arrived in the room something he could focus on at last. "Mum?" he whispered. "Dad?"
* * *
Alestor Moody rose to his feet, feeling grim as the tidings he knew it would be his duty to bear the Molly and Arthur. The couple were standing in the middle of the room, staring at their son, crouched and cowering behind the sofa.
"Where's ...?" Molly began with a confused frown. And then she met Alestor's eyes, and a mother's intuition took over. He wouldn't have to tell her after all.
With a sharp cry, as though she had been stabbed through the heart, Molly Weasley clutched at her husband's arm and fell to her knees. "Nononononono ..."
Arthur Weasley went dead white. His eyes slowly turned from his son to his wife, kneeling on the floor. Numbly, he sat down, trying to take her into his arms, but she kept batting him away. At last she went down on hands and knees and crawled over to her son's hiding place.
"Baby?" she sobbed. "Baby, Mummy's here ..." Her tall, gangling, grownup son held his arms out to her, and disregarding the fact that he was not a six year old with a skinned knee, she pulled him into her arms.
Alestor was ushering the rest of the stunned Order members from the room. At last, it was just him and the Weasleys. Arthur still knelt in the centre of the room, staring at his wife and son.
Alestor rested a hand on his shoulder, and Arthur looked up. "Is it --" he cleared his throat. "Is it true? Is my son --?"
"I'm afraid so, Arthur." He sighed. "The boy said his brother is dead. It must be so. He would never have come back alone, elsewise."
Arthur nodded, eyes still on his family.
"But Arthur," Alestor went on, "if it's not too much to ask, can you tell me which of your sons it is as has come back and which it is that's gone?"
Arthur Weasley's adam's apple bobbed in his throat, and Molly, with a despairing sound, held the boy in her arms by the shoulders, at arms length. She searched her son's blank face for a moment with swollen, red eyes.
At last she said in a trembling voice, "I don't know, Alestor. And what's more, I don't believe he knows either."
And can I just say, feedback, please!, because I've posted the first bit in about eight places, and the lack of comments is deafening. I have to know that someone thinks or feels something about this piece.
He couldn't think -- couldn't remember. His wand was clutched tight in his hand, but he looked at it without seeing it. Magic was a word he knew without comprehending. In his right mind, he could have apparated back to the Order's headquarters in seconds, but as he was -- crazed with grief and denial -- it took him the better part of a day to make his way to the house on foot.
It was nearly dark by the time he reached its foreboding facade. Stumbling up to the door, he beat and scratched at it until it was opened. He staggered in, no even looking to see who had opened the door, covering his ears to block out the screeching of the painting in the hallway that looked too much like the last face he could remember seeing.
He half-fell into the sitting room, crawled on hands and knees to the space between the sofa and the wall, and squeezed himself into it, and huddled there, shivering.
There were voices. People were gathering around him, peering at him, speaking to him. He looked up at them with the eyes of a wounded and terrified animal. They quickly saw that they would get no response from him, and began talking amongst themselves.
"... contact Molly and Arthur?"
"... never seen him look like this."
"Where's ...?"
"... seen one without ..."
"What can have happened?"
Then, suddenly, there was a sharp, belligerent face very close to his, a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, one black eye, and one milky blue eye searching his face, and a voice. "Weasley? Weasley, pull yourself together. You must tell us what's happened. Where's your brother?"
"I've got five ..." he mumbled.
"Weasley, your parents have been summoned. If something's happened to your brother, we must know. Where is he? Has he fallen into enemy hands?"
He was vaguely aware that a few members of the Order were putting on cloaks and checking for their wands. They were standing near the door, waiting for a word from him. Waiting for him to tell them where to go.
"Knock -- Knockturn Alley," he whispered at last.
"You heard him, lads," Mad-Eye Moody said grimly.
As the rescue party turned towards the door, he put out a hand. "No, wait! No, it's too late ... too late!" his voice sounded unnaturally high. "He's dead."
A silence descended upon the room, and all he could hear was the gasping sound of his own breathing. Everyone was staring at him, as if transfixed.
Then, with a soft bamf, there arrived in the room something he could focus on at last. "Mum?" he whispered. "Dad?"
* * *
Alestor Moody rose to his feet, feeling grim as the tidings he knew it would be his duty to bear the Molly and Arthur. The couple were standing in the middle of the room, staring at their son, crouched and cowering behind the sofa.
"Where's ...?" Molly began with a confused frown. And then she met Alestor's eyes, and a mother's intuition took over. He wouldn't have to tell her after all.
With a sharp cry, as though she had been stabbed through the heart, Molly Weasley clutched at her husband's arm and fell to her knees. "Nononononono ..."
Arthur Weasley went dead white. His eyes slowly turned from his son to his wife, kneeling on the floor. Numbly, he sat down, trying to take her into his arms, but she kept batting him away. At last she went down on hands and knees and crawled over to her son's hiding place.
"Baby?" she sobbed. "Baby, Mummy's here ..." Her tall, gangling, grownup son held his arms out to her, and disregarding the fact that he was not a six year old with a skinned knee, she pulled him into her arms.
Alestor was ushering the rest of the stunned Order members from the room. At last, it was just him and the Weasleys. Arthur still knelt in the centre of the room, staring at his wife and son.
Alestor rested a hand on his shoulder, and Arthur looked up. "Is it --" he cleared his throat. "Is it true? Is my son --?"
"I'm afraid so, Arthur." He sighed. "The boy said his brother is dead. It must be so. He would never have come back alone, elsewise."
Arthur nodded, eyes still on his family.
"But Arthur," Alestor went on, "if it's not too much to ask, can you tell me which of your sons it is as has come back and which it is that's gone?"
Arthur Weasley's adam's apple bobbed in his throat, and Molly, with a despairing sound, held the boy in her arms by the shoulders, at arms length. She searched her son's blank face for a moment with swollen, red eyes.
At last she said in a trembling voice, "I don't know, Alestor. And what's more, I don't believe he knows either."