i think icarus died with the sun still clenched in his palms and that the sound of his feathers flush with thin air must have been like a rainstorm and funeral song at the same time and i think he tasted his home for a brief moment and maybe in the clouds glanced the open arms of his mother. i think icarus splashed into that blood-dark ocean and i think someone somewhere must have mistaken that brightness for a shooting star and wished upon him. i think i have been in love with icarus since the day i learned of someone who was so kindred to me he could sense death coming and still rose up in greeting.
location. the leaky cauldron.
date. may 13th, 1979.
status. closed.
WARM LAMPLIGHT SPILLS out into the darkened streets from the cauldron’s windows, the ever swinging doors, and once again ted marvels that the nearly tangible reek of alcohol in the air hasn’t yet made the place burst into flames. it’s almost disappointing, and not just because he has quite a few sickles on it. but as long as the building stands, he is all too happy to make use of it. the night slowly wears away -- and with it his sobriety -- in amelia’s company, and he is glad for both the camaraderie and the distraction that it brings. he thumps a chipped glass down on an equally cracked table with a thud, a few last drops of firewhiskey sloshing about at the bottom as he peers at his cards.
❝ do you--- ❞ hands cupped under his chin, an all too serious expression on his face, ❝ have any twos ? ❞ not that he needs them--- they’re playing diamondback.
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location. the apothecary.
date. may 13th, 1979.
status. closed.
IT’S LATE BY the time he wanders into the shop, the pale lines of his face tired and relaxed in the gold glow of the dying sunlight, and by the time he reaches home the night shall have fallen in earnest. the shop’s little bell rings as he pushes open the door, a high and dainty thing, and when his eyes fall on andromeda in the back he finds he does not mind the late hour. after all, their order can’t keep long. ( s o m e at st. mungos may claim he’d volunteered out of something other than altruism, but what do they know, really ? so what, if he delights at seeing her after the long day ? like the easy warmth of butterbeer in his stomach, like the press of a soft sweater. like coming home. she’s his FRIEND. )
❝ andy ! ❞ he greets, a rather fond smile on his face, striding past beetle eyes and bat wings without a second glance. ( odd, how something that had shocked him as a child could seem so commonplace, forgettable now. ) ❝ you’re on shift tonight. ❞ something he knew, of course, but he sees no reason to share that particular fact. ❝ i -- uh, the hospital had an order for some mandrakes. ❞
location: ministry of magic, at the gala
date: may 5th 1979
open to all !
it is with a sigh and a slight flourish that molly finally manages to brush past a small hoard of people en route to the refreshment table. shouldering her way through the scheming and powerful, she reflects on the fact that she had agreed to accompany her father ( dear old patriarch of the prewetts, a man who’s vehemently clung onto his position at the ministry despite all the political unrest as of late ) to the night’s event; her mother and brothers seemed to have no desire to wade in the political turmoil, so the responsibility fell to none other than molly herself. having to trade shifts at the hospital to make a gala she would much rather not attend but didn’t have the heart to turn down, molly stands in the thick of it all in pinchy shoes, quite unable to staunch the sinking feeling of regret.
she finds herself craning her neck around to look for arthur, maybe even moody, any sort of familiar face – no luck. molly resigns herself to piling the small plate in hand. “ at least the organizers had the sense to cater some good food and flowing drinks – i think everyone here could use a boost in spirit. ”
DESPITE ANY EVIDENCE to the contrary, he is not nervous. why would he be, one of the few m u d b l o o d s in the room, surrounded by the purest of the pure, families tracing back longer than he can imagine ? no -- if his fingers are tight around the stem of his glass, it is only because he’s afraid it may slip through his fingers in the jostling of the crowd. if his smile seems a mite forced, well, he’d only just left his shift at st. mungos, of course he’s tired. ---and if the sight of molly, just there by the food, perks him so, who wouldn’t be glad to see a familiar face ?
❝ you can’t have a party without good food, ❞ he agrees, leaning carefully around her to snag yet another pastry. ( listen -- he can’t help it. no matter how terrifying they might be, the ministry d o e s know how to throw a good party. ) ❝ everyone would revolt. there would be pandemonium in the streets, someone would overthrow the minister.. i think this is for the best. ❞
location: improper use of magic office (ministry of magic level 2)
Edith let out a long sigh as she pressed the palms of her hands to her closed eyes. The work day felt as though it were dragging on more than usual. She slid her palms up to her temples and opened her eyes to check the time. Through slightly blurred vision she saw that the clock hanging above her office door read quarter to one. A lunch break seemed appropriate.
She grabbed her jacket and handbag from the coat rack by the door before pulling the door open. She hadn’t expected to be almost nose to nose with someone when she stepped out.
“Can I help you with something?” Edith asked. And can it wait? she thought to herself.
grandmother had told him, once, arms crossed and a sigh on her lips, that he could get himself lost in a straight line. an exaggeration, perhaps, but as he turns past a window he’s sure he’s seen at least twice before, he thinks he may owe her a tad more credit. a hand through dark hair and he glances a moment out the window, eyes old and tired, weary with something more than simple fatigue. it was only hours ago that he’d stumbled from the hospital doors, the ends of his coat still stained with merlin - knows - what, after a pack of death eaters had brought someone’s party to an end. he’s done his part, answered every question the aurors had brought him in for, and merlin--- he just wants to go HOME.
( ted loves being a healer. needs it, in ways he can’t quite put words to, to feel as he’s doing something -- anything -- to make this war just a little easier, the days just a bit brighter. but the weeks drag on, and for every life he saves two more are lost in the meanwhile, and he is so, deeply, tired. )
❝ oh ! i’m sorry, i didn’t see you there. ---directions would be great, if you don’t mind. i’ll trade you, uh, a chocolate frog i swiped from the auror’s office. ❞
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shows up fifteen minutes late without starbucks. this group has been open all of a day, and i’ve already designated myself the neighborhood disaster. hello, hello !! i’m teddy, i’m nineteen, and i never fucking learned how to be on time. i had a minor pet emergency, i’m very sorry. but at long last, i have arrived ! i know, i know, hold the applause. i have two whole characters to introduce to y’all, and the deets on my boy ted are under the cut.
i. the basics.
the dark lord has targeted edward ‘ted’ tonks ! the muggles say he holds resemblance to kim jisoo. the twenty-six year old male was audacious & boisterous before the war, but has now become fickle & scatterbrained. though they were once a part of hufflepuff, they have now taken up the position of a healer at saint mungos. whispers throughout the ministry claim that the muggleborn is actually an order member, but i wouldn’t report that to the daily prophet.
ii. the aesthetic.
warm butterbeer on a winter’s day, a woolen sweater with too long sleeves. sunshine dappled through autumn leaves, a blur of redorangeyellow. teeth bitten into eraser caps, quills scattered forgotten in a trunk. ( they look nice, he can admit. but pencils are much more convenient, even especially when a pureblood jeers. there is a time to cower. there’s another for quiet rebellion. ) hugs that last just a little too tight, a jersey ( chaser, captain ) just a little too big. rumpled hair as if he’s just rolled out of bed, a loud laugh booming through the halls, a pen knife scraping patterns across wood, down the handle of a secondhand broom. hushed giggles and a secret wink. cheeks red with firewhiskey and glee, eyes blazing ever bright.
iii. the story.
this is how ted comes into the world – to warmth. a mother’s smile, a father’s tears, a hand woven blanket curled close. from his first moments, he knows little other than love. they call him edward, for an uncle, and it takes but a week for the nickname to follow. ( ed, his father suggests, but his mother shakes her head. aunt marie likes eddie, but her wife prefers ward. it’s his grandfather who calls him, one day, as soft as a teddy bear, and the name sticks. )
they call him a terror as a child, affectionately, and it’s almost true. he’s – rambunctious, is the word, his mother decides. energetic, and curious, and full of adventure. sticky fingers, a broken glass, his first full sentence goes like this – i didn’t mean to ! they child proof the cupboards the next day. when they’re all open by the hour, as if by magic, well – kid are smarter than we give them credit for, right ?
it’s small things, at first. open locks there, an itchy sweater shrunk there. they brush it off. after all, there has to be an explanation. doesn’t there ? he’s eleven the day the cat gets caught up a tree, and it takes an hour to wake grandmother after she faints dead away, the sight of him levitating too much to bear. two months later, they get the letter. the world starts making sense again.
ollivander’s ( larch wood with a unicorn hair core, thirteen and a half inches, supple flexibility ), then flourish & botts. a whole new world ( a dazzling place he never kneeew ), and he delights in it. the teacher they’d sent to help warns him – the wizarding world isn’t as rose tinted as he thinks. there’s a certain grief to her voice, a weariness in her eyes. he doesn’t notice. that is – until they stop for ice cream. the student at the next table, brand new robes and books stacked high, takes one look at his proffered hand. ( well worn jeans, paper money. eyes alight with wonder, a jaw nearly slack. ) MUDBLOOD.
record scratch, freeze frame. what ? they shuffle away, sundaes near forgotten, and the guide explains. his mother gasps, his father’s jaw clenches. ted ? he moves on. the only korean child in a lily white town, he’s long been used to people disliking him for what he can’t control. no matter, he thinks, watching sparks shoot from his wand. it’s worth it. ( still – extra muggle clothes in his trunk, new packs of pencils. his mother’s cat, instead of the owl he’d wanted to beg for. he’s never been ashamed of his family. he won’t start now. )
in other life – he may have been a gryffindor. in this one, he falls to hufflepuff, to kindness and to loyalty, to a little bit of home. he picks up magic easily, makes friends easier. he learns how to fly, the best time to sneak into the kitchens, how good he is at exploding snap. it takes all of summer to convince his father of a broom, but in his second year he makes chaser. in seventh, he makes captain.
it’s his sixth year that he stages a pickup game the week after christmas, a stray bludger crashing into the infirmary's window. broken glass litters the floor, moonlight playing off shards, and headmaster dumbledore tells him to assist the healer for the next month. this is how he falls in love with healing – legs swinging from a bed as he watches madame brew a potion, head bent as he heals a sparrow’s leg for the first time. he writes his mother, ink splattered across parchment in his hurry, thrilled with the thought of knowing his future.
he never joins the order, not really. he’s not like them, anger curled in their chests like coal, the smoke thick enough to choke. there has been far too much fighting, as of late. he’d much rather prefer to heal.
