handle with care

“This sounds like bullshit.” He huffs out, to nobody in particular but he doesn’t really care who responds at all - if anyone. He has a laptop in front of him and papers spread out in a horrid state. At least the coffee and tea cups are arranged neatly, them and the books he had brought with him. “This doesn’t even make any fucking sense, it’s such fucking bullshit.”

—

even as the weather grew warmer, chill still crept into the ministry archives—partly purposefully to keep the more temperature sensitive documents safe and partly because of the position of the archives in the ministry itself. adora’d spent nearly every break in the past few weeks at a coffee shop, spending money she probably shouldn’t on the largest hot tea she could. there was a vague recognition of damien akin to the recognition a child might have of a distant relative—name far out of reach and the face just barely remembered. “what does it say? is it math? i’m horrible at math.”

🚆 TRAIN - what is their answer to the trolley problem?

the trolley problem can be interpreted in a number of way but i’m going with one of the more basic ones here: the person you care most about vs five strangers. if anyone asked adora, the answered would be the five strangers, some justification about the number of lives being saved falling from her lips. but if she was truly put in that situtation, if it were up to her to save luca ( @woesbegone ) or five random strangers? she’d save luca without a thought about it. 

they were housemates, once. it feels like a lifetime ago, but catherine remembers adora well enough to at least be aware of her usual coloring, which is not sheet white. her concern is a quiet thing, difficult for her to convey and not helped by a tendency to state the overly obvious - “you don’t look very good, “ - but real enough for her to offer an arm despite her own discomfort with such a thing, “c’mon. it’s a bit quieter off the main street.” 

wrapping   paper   of   an   early   christmas   present      lays   discarded   on   their   kitchen   table,   the   one   with   the   grooves      &      scratches   he   knows   like   his   own      /      perched   at   it   often   enough   to   know   every   stain,   to   𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎   the   patina   that   glows   golden   in   warmed   light.   migrated   from   his   usual   position   at   adora’s   side   to   their   sofa,   where   he   cradles   a   mug      &      ponders   the   question   prompted.   vincent   is   a   QUANDARY   unto   himself,   even   now         ;         unsteady   fingers   aren’t   ready   to   solve   the   heady,   complicated   mess   of   what   younger   brother   had   become.      (      were   they   ever      ?      )         ❛         he   wasn’t   always         …         ❜         last   syllable   comes   out   dissonant,   𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓   before   he’s   even   really   considered   the   weight   they   hold.   his   sigh   is   heavy,   stilted      ;      pauses,   to   sip   at   lukewarm   tea      &      to   steal   a   sidelong   glance   at   adora.      𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍   𝗈𝖿   𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆      /      least   exposed,   for   better   or   for   worse.      they   have   a   right   to   know      …      &      yet,   there’s   the   faint   urge   to   protect   them   both   buried   under   the   taste   of   over   -   steeped   earl   grey.   below   the   tannins,   julius   can   taste   a   dualfold   appetition:      to   tell   adora   the   truth,   ugliness      &      all      /      to   share   that   minute   glimmer   that   still   lingers,   despite   the   mud   that   memory   is   tainted   with.         

❛         well,   he   was   a   mean   bastard,      ‘specially   when   he   got   involved   with   that   malfoy   twat.   he   liked   to   do   awful   things,      &      there’s   no      …      there’s   no   making   that   shit   taste   like   sugar,   d’you   know   what   i   mean      ?      but   he   wasn’t   always   like   that.   he   was   a   bit   younger   than   me,   so   we   kind’a   grew   up   at   the   same   time      …      he   was   quiet,   dora.   real   quiet.   you   could   forget   he   was   𝑇𝐻𝐸𝑅𝐸   sometimes,   just      …      sat   there   by   himself.   he   thought   a   lot,   y’could   tell      …      he   could’a   solved   𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿   𝗍𝗁𝖾   𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽’𝗌   𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗌   if   he’d   let   himself.   wasn’t   half   as   stupid   as   they   all   thought   he   was.   he   changed   at   hogwarts,   though.         ❜         he   breaks,   to   sip   his   drink   that’s   lost   even   more   of   its   heat         ──      the   gesture   is   grounding,   regardless.         ❛         it’s   like   he   just      …      lost   something,   i   dunno.   before,   we   could’a   TALKED   about   something.   we   did   talk.         ❜         inky   midnight      &      hushed   voices   echo   in   stained   -   glass   memoir,   himself      &      vincent   so   much   younger,   greener.   only   one   of   them   will   be   granted   the   privilege,   the   PUNISHMENT   of   aging   past   it.         ❛         he   liked   art,      &      the   colour   𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎.   he   loved   us,   but   he   didn’t   always   like   us      …      felt   a   bit   mutual,   most   days.   he   was   a   PAIN   IN   THE   ASS,   but   he   was   ours,   y’know      ?      right   little   dickhead,   but   at   least   he   was   ours.         ❜

adora’s own time at hogwarts started the year after the battle of hogwarts, the year after vincent’s death. she’d been kept at home with luca the year she’d been meant to start. it was all too tumultuous to send them to hogwarts—not when adora was the youngest of them and always seemed the most fragile. they’d heard some of the things vincent had done, all of it filtered down though the older students at hogwarts who saw the youngest crabbe and saw the resemblance to their older brother, a handful of whispers to keep an eye on them. 

dennis had always had a certain knack of finding those who were out of place - it was likely due to having often felt the same way himself. still he held off on approaching adora directly, deciding that it would be far too imposing. but he did step forward once she spoke, a small smile on his face. “i think there are seats by the skating rink,” he took a quick glance at their surroundings, “where you sit to put on your skates. otherwise it’s pretty crowded, i’m afraid.”

1. luca. luca wouldn’t fight adora so it’s less that adora could take her and more than luca would remove herself from the situation. 

2. julius. i think he could be coaxed into fighting her. i think he could and he would win bc adora is frightening weak. 

unfortunately, that was exactly how luca had spent the last few days. she had apparated into the chaos of the circle the very minute that the aurors tasked with keeping everyone safe inside the ministry box let down their guard, joining the dozens upon dozens of people all screaming and searching for their family in the immediate aftermath. she had located julius with little issue - shaky on his feet and later confirmed concussed, later still something they had been able to joke about, weakly, brain cells and knocking them back into place that inspired laughter that lasted only so long as it took for the sickly feeling of worry to sink back in. otto was okay. shaken, but okay. the emergency healers had found adora. contacted her after they had already transferred them to st mungo’s, left out all the detail that luca soon demanded from a welcome witch none too kindly, and she’d barely left their side since. julius dropped by food raided from the hospital vending machines. 24 hours after arrival a coworker had dropped in sweatpants and a t-shirt that luca had swapped out her derby dress for, though she hadn’t been home to leave the plastic bag containing that and her heels, since. caught trying to smoke in the corridor outside their door, luca had only left because she’d been forced to. she regretted it, now, eyes welling up unbidden and box of cigarettes thrown carelessly to the cushioned chair she’s grown so sick of as she rushes to their side. “they’re fine. everyone is okay, baby,” that’s understating everything both have been through by massive proportions, but luca’s scale is admittedly skewed; if neither are lying in a hospital bed, too, both are doing better than adora. “i do have some bad news about your fish…”

grievous injury descriptions below

The healer and nursing staff has hardly allowed Molly to leave her bed since she woke up, she was beginning to lose her sanity being cooped up. It went against all she was, even in all the pain she was in ( though she’d never let her family know about how bad the pain got ). It was to her surprise when she finally strong-armed the staff enough that they finally allowed her to sit in a wheelchair and sit by a window in the hallway. Not exactly going home just yet, but it was a start. 

“A beautiful day,” She looks out, a wistful gaze in her eyes. “And I can’t even enjoy it.”

adora’d been given her own wheelchair for her stay, something that had largely been used when her siblings were visiting, mostly luca pushing her around and giving a much needed change in  scenery. but she’d gotten the cast off her arm a few days ago, and chose today to get used to using the wheelchair on her own. the healer had warned she’d probably be in it until she made decent progress in physical therapy, the right ankle sprain and broken left tibia pushing back the start date for it enough already. “there’s a patio they might let you go on. luca got me out there a few times.”