RP: Forgotten Pleasures
Date: 30 March, 2005 (backdated)
Character: Ted Tonks
Location: 111 Albus Ave.
Status: Private
Summary: If idle hands are the devil's playground, then Ted needs to find himself a hobby.
Completion: Complete
Books weren't helping. He wasn't hungry. Andy wasn't around. Nothing to do, no one to talk to. It took a while for it to hit Ted that, contrary to his initial sense that something was wrong, he was instead experiencing the unfamiliar and altogether normal feeling of boredom.
Well, can't complain about that, given the alternatives.
Still, it was making him slip back into old habits, stalking through the house in search of something he couldn't find. He scrubbed his hand through his hair and tried to think about what he'd be doing now, if this had been any other lazy Friday afternoon in his life, back before his capture. Even during the war, he'd had free time, worked on projects.
Huh. What had happened to all of his woodcarving tools?
After an exhaustive and oddly satisfying hunt through the cottage that ultimately left him empty-handed, he got a snack and stood at the kitchen counter, eating and puzzling out what Andy had done with them. She wouldn't have given them away, and certainly would have brought them along had she been able. Given to him by his Muggle grandfather as a graduation present from Hogwarts, Ted had carted them around to all the places he and Andy had lived since then; she knew how much he cherished them. None of his projects had ever been masterpieces, but they had been by no means bad, and he'd enjoyed working with his hands, shaping and carving the wood, seeing it take on a life of its own. He'd often wondered how it must be to make a broom or a wand, to make something with actual power held within it.
Taking another bite of bread and jam, he happened to glance out the back window and immediately rolled his eyes. Tool shed. Right.
He ate the last bite and licked the jam stickiness off of his fingers on his way out the back door, crossing over the grass to the little outbuilding on the edge of the property. The door wasn't locked, though he felt the tiny prickle of wards when he opened the door and stepped through to look around the interior of the shed, remarkably dry and dust-free, and in usual Andy-fashion, organized to within an inch of its life. It took no more that five minutes to find the box of tools, and even a small bag of seasoned wood scraps from earlier projects - he was touched that she'd saved even those - and then bring everything back into the house.
He laid the box on the table and opened it up, eyes taking in the still-gleaming steel of the rasps and chisels and gouges. He took them out, one by one, lovingly handling them and recalling the many happy hours he'd spent with his father and grandfather, learning how to use them. Hopefully he still remembered.
Delving into the canvas bag of scraps, he selected a small, flat piece of oak and thought of what to do first. A flower would be easy, and relatively fast; perhaps it could even be done by the time Andy got home.
He set to work, finding a stub of pencil in the tool box and sketching a rough outline on the block before picking out the properly sized gouge and beginning to carve, lips pinched in concentration.
Finally, as the sun was falling swiftly toward the horizon and the shadows outside were growing long, he sat back and smiled. Certainly not the best thing he'd ever done, but not terrible, not for only a couple hours of labour.
The tools were carefully packed up and put back in the shed, while the little practice block was left out for Andy to see when she got home.
Deciding that a shower sounded good - his shoulders were aching a little from the unaccustomed hunching - he climbed the stairs, whistling softly. It had turned out to be a surprisingly good day.
Character: Ted Tonks
Location: 111 Albus Ave.
Status: Private
Summary: If idle hands are the devil's playground, then Ted needs to find himself a hobby.
Completion: Complete
Books weren't helping. He wasn't hungry. Andy wasn't around. Nothing to do, no one to talk to. It took a while for it to hit Ted that, contrary to his initial sense that something was wrong, he was instead experiencing the unfamiliar and altogether normal feeling of boredom.
Well, can't complain about that, given the alternatives.
Still, it was making him slip back into old habits, stalking through the house in search of something he couldn't find. He scrubbed his hand through his hair and tried to think about what he'd be doing now, if this had been any other lazy Friday afternoon in his life, back before his capture. Even during the war, he'd had free time, worked on projects.
Huh. What had happened to all of his woodcarving tools?
After an exhaustive and oddly satisfying hunt through the cottage that ultimately left him empty-handed, he got a snack and stood at the kitchen counter, eating and puzzling out what Andy had done with them. She wouldn't have given them away, and certainly would have brought them along had she been able. Given to him by his Muggle grandfather as a graduation present from Hogwarts, Ted had carted them around to all the places he and Andy had lived since then; she knew how much he cherished them. None of his projects had ever been masterpieces, but they had been by no means bad, and he'd enjoyed working with his hands, shaping and carving the wood, seeing it take on a life of its own. He'd often wondered how it must be to make a broom or a wand, to make something with actual power held within it.
Taking another bite of bread and jam, he happened to glance out the back window and immediately rolled his eyes. Tool shed. Right.
He ate the last bite and licked the jam stickiness off of his fingers on his way out the back door, crossing over the grass to the little outbuilding on the edge of the property. The door wasn't locked, though he felt the tiny prickle of wards when he opened the door and stepped through to look around the interior of the shed, remarkably dry and dust-free, and in usual Andy-fashion, organized to within an inch of its life. It took no more that five minutes to find the box of tools, and even a small bag of seasoned wood scraps from earlier projects - he was touched that she'd saved even those - and then bring everything back into the house.
He laid the box on the table and opened it up, eyes taking in the still-gleaming steel of the rasps and chisels and gouges. He took them out, one by one, lovingly handling them and recalling the many happy hours he'd spent with his father and grandfather, learning how to use them. Hopefully he still remembered.
Delving into the canvas bag of scraps, he selected a small, flat piece of oak and thought of what to do first. A flower would be easy, and relatively fast; perhaps it could even be done by the time Andy got home.
He set to work, finding a stub of pencil in the tool box and sketching a rough outline on the block before picking out the properly sized gouge and beginning to carve, lips pinched in concentration.
Finally, as the sun was falling swiftly toward the horizon and the shadows outside were growing long, he sat back and smiled. Certainly not the best thing he'd ever done, but not terrible, not for only a couple hours of labour.
The tools were carefully packed up and put back in the shed, while the little practice block was left out for Andy to see when she got home.
Deciding that a shower sounded good - his shoulders were aching a little from the unaccustomed hunching - he climbed the stairs, whistling softly. It had turned out to be a surprisingly good day.