closed: there's a first time for everything?
This was it.
A whole month of ramping anxiety and impatient nervousness. Four weeks filled with more strangeness, disorientation, confusion, and, well, magic than he'd ever thought to see in a lifetime. And it all came out to this day that had been looming in the background of every exchange since waking up at St-Mungo's.
The full moon.
He wasn't exactly enthusiastic about it.
It hadn't taken long to pick up from Hestia and Harry, then from Marlow, then from Zacharias, that it was relatively useless to hope. No one had outright said it, but it didn't take a mind reader to pick up on the thin veil of optimism and the resolution that lay behind it.
And if everyone's not-quite-confirmed knowledge and the case history he'd read up after perusing the Linney-Smiths' library, he'd admitted that he just sort of...knew. There was an itch in his bones that had gotten more pronounced in the days leading up to this one, a sort of tension, like the ghost of an ache, an invisible tightening.
No. This was happening. Sooner rather than later, if he had his damn way, because there was only so much pacing a man could do to stave off his nerves, and he'd already walked around the whole house a dozen times today. He was pretty sure he hadn't been yelled at to sit the hell down and stop making everyone dizzy purely out of respect for the sensitivity of the situation.
"When is this supposed to start again?" he asked, for the tenth time, fully knowing the answer he'd get, running a hand through his now-permanently-swept-back-due-to-excessive-combing hair.
A whole month of ramping anxiety and impatient nervousness. Four weeks filled with more strangeness, disorientation, confusion, and, well, magic than he'd ever thought to see in a lifetime. And it all came out to this day that had been looming in the background of every exchange since waking up at St-Mungo's.
The full moon.
He wasn't exactly enthusiastic about it.
It hadn't taken long to pick up from Hestia and Harry, then from Marlow, then from Zacharias, that it was relatively useless to hope. No one had outright said it, but it didn't take a mind reader to pick up on the thin veil of optimism and the resolution that lay behind it.
And if everyone's not-quite-confirmed knowledge and the case history he'd read up after perusing the Linney-Smiths' library, he'd admitted that he just sort of...knew. There was an itch in his bones that had gotten more pronounced in the days leading up to this one, a sort of tension, like the ghost of an ache, an invisible tightening.
No. This was happening. Sooner rather than later, if he had his damn way, because there was only so much pacing a man could do to stave off his nerves, and he'd already walked around the whole house a dozen times today. He was pretty sure he hadn't been yelled at to sit the hell down and stop making everyone dizzy purely out of respect for the sensitivity of the situation.
"When is this supposed to start again?" he asked, for the tenth time, fully knowing the answer he'd get, running a hand through his now-permanently-swept-back-due-to-excessive-combing hair.