Fireworks at Night

justicebones·:

As they headed out into the hallway, they were already outnumbered. There seemed to be at least four nearby and more on the way. Amelia, for one, wasn’t afraid though; she was sure that she and her boys could handle this. Instead they focused on moving as a team, working together and stunning whichever Death Eater was closest.

People were running by them, afraid and trying to escape, and they were doing their best to protect those who were innocent and knock out those that weren’t. Amelia stepped forward to hit a Death Eater who got too close to Caradoc, and Caradoc did the same, while Edgar sent spells from where he was in the shadows. They kept moving, despite the number of silver masks that felt perhaps too foreboding.

The three of them moved in sync, with the familiarity of people who had fought many battle side by side—in Caradoc and Edgar’s case—and were almost as one—in Edgar and Amelia’s. So far, they had managed to stay close together, never too far out of reach of each other, always one spell ready to cover each other’s back. Yet, as he had told Mary, it didn’t matter how hard one tried to stick together, sometimes you found yourself driven away from your allies—your friends. 

It happened for them, too. One moment, Amelia had been at his left and the next she was all the way across the hallway and Caradoc didn’t know how it had happened. He only knew that he couldn’t get to her to help her because just as her, he could see his own reflection in the Silver Mask staring back at him. 

And Edgar… 

“Edgar.”

@spellnbone​

They’d not all of them come one by one, but Caradoc and Amelia had not proceeded without awareness and preparation, and so it almost felt like it. Edgar’s wand steadily pointed at one person, then the next, his stunning spell simple and precise. They were directed even at potential friends, partly because they didn’t know who was their friend, partly because at least while lying on the ground in a forgotten corridor, most of these people wouldn’t be found and killed.

And so they’d proceeded, the three of them, Caradoc, Amelia and Edgar, and although this was the first time they fought shoulder to shoulder in a battle, it felt familiar, it felt like a well-staged routine. Years of taking care of each other, years of understanding the other’s strength and weaknesses, years of becoming aware of every jerk, every breath, every motion of hesitation. Had it all been but preparation for this day?

And then Edgar saw a Silver Mask, no, Death Eater, stand before him. They had come out of nowhere it seemed. How had they even seen him, standing in the shadows? He raised his wand and then he heard his name. His gaze jumped to Caradoc, but he’d not called for his own sake despite being faced by a Death Eater the same way, he’d called because of Amelia. Because she too, was cornered. No.

One. Help himself.

Two. Help Caradoc.

Three. Help Amelia.

He couldn’t help them all. No.

His eyes widened, his wand and gaze jumping from one side of the corridor to the other, jumping more and more frantically until it felt like his heart was about to stop, until it was as though he’d already lost and then. No. 

Four. He pointed his wand at the ceiling. “Ayespeji.” 

The corridor turned dark. From the ceiling on downwards the room seemed to be changed by a heavy, dark liquid, masking over everything, every tapestry, every piece of furniture, the floor, even Edgar, his enemies, his family, until there was nothing left but the illusion of the first memory that had come to his mind. A memory of the last time he’d used that spell. 

A particular room in the Nott’s house. It wasn’t a perfect recreation. It was bare but for the few details Edgar had seen in photographs and in the retelling of people’s mission. Everything else was a perfect reconstruction of the enchanted map they had made for the mission. The map, and the people on it, their report they’d given to Edgar after the mission had failed; in the room now floated two brightly shining dots, their names floating underneath just the way they had on the map that day: Lily Evans and Frank Longbottom, their names floating underneath their light. 

‘You’re still in your own house, on your own couch,’ Edgar had told Lily, all those months ago, when Leina Nott’s death had nearly torn the Order apart, and he had to force himself into calmness. That was not what he said today: “Run!” 

Time: 2nd of May Place: Ministry of Magic Status: Closed, semi Self-Para: @dearborncaradoc, @justicebones

Even without the message explaining them the situation, it was simple to understand what was happening by the sight of it alone. Silver Masks storming the atrium -- too many of them didn’t come from outside -- and Edgar pushed Caradoc and Amelia back into the office. 

“What are you doing?!” Amelia hissed, fighting her hands off him. “We have to go and do something!” 

Edgar’s eyes wandered from her to Caradoc, who had drawn his wand and nodded. “There’s no time to lose.”

“But-...” Edgar said and his forlorn gaze wandered further still, to the half-eaten lunch on the table.

Amelia understood and took his face into her hands. She too had already drawn her wand, and he could feel it cold against his cheeks. “If we go now, we’ll have an even better lunch tomorrow.” The inevitable truth behind those words being: if we don’t go now, we might never have lunch together again.

Edgar clutched her hands, looked into her eyes. It had all been so much easier when he had never had to storm into battle thinking those eyes by his side. “I’ll be behind you.” 

“I trust you.” Amelia let go and turned, and by the door, Caradoc nodded, putting his hand on the handle. 

One. Two. Three.

He opened it and they ran out.

Four. 

Behind her, Fletcher’s eyes found him.

The ghost seemed to disappear for a moment, but there she was again. “You can’t have it.”

His hands clenched, his back straightened. “Why not?”

“It’s mine, now. He gave it to me, and now it’s mine” Mundungus averted his gaze once again, to bring it on her. “Nefertiti..” “It’s mine!” she shouted, her anger filling the room with the echo of her words. “While should he get to have it returned to him!” Edgar didn’t flinch. His gaze never averted from the ghost. He did not let his curiosity get the better of him and inquire who she was or why Fletcher gave her gifts. He was not here was fun. His research wasn’t of academic nature to later be published in a journal. This was the life of his best friend. “Because it’s not mine. He thought he was stealing something from me, but it’s not mine, not me to steal it from.” “It’s mine!” Nefertiti shouted, her anger filling the room with the echo of her words. “Why should he get to have it returned to him?!” Edgar didn’t flinch. His gaze never averted from the ghost. He did not let his curiosity get the better of him and inquire who she was or why Fletcher gave her gifts. He was not here was fun. His research wasn’t of academic nature to later be published in a journal. This was the life of his best friend. “Because it’s not mine. He thought he was stealing something from me, but it’s not mine, not me to steal it from.”

Nefertiti narrowed her eyes as her gaze was fixed on Edgar. “Lies,” she answered, setting her jaw into a tight, stubborn line. “Excuses. You are all so good at them.” She moved closer. One step, two, as if any moment she could just charge at him, maybe even cast an hex. But it was all smoke, even less real and tangible than that. “You call yourself ward. Why not jailer. Either way, it’s with me now. I won’t let anyone take it from me.” Her hand too was now clenched, closed tightly in a fist which sadly could not hold anything any longer. “Nefertiti..” Mundungus tried, once more, to call her name.

“Stop! You gave it to me, and it’s mine now!”

He dipped his head the way a scolded child does when reminded of his wrongdoings. But Mundungus was hardly ever the man to care about being bad. She had stepped closer to Edgar, he was stepping back, into the darkness.  “Seems there isn’t much I can do, Bones,” he said, a little too cheery a tone for the situation the three of them found themselves in, as his figure disappeared until only the red burning dot of his cigarette remained. “Unless you want to try and changer her mind.”

This time, Edgar attached the key to the leather band where Amelia's locket had been, given to him back when her hair had still been a brighter shade, back when the sun still shone upon him every day. He wasn't sure why he was no longer afraid of Nefertiti. Of ghosts. Perhaps because while speaking to her, he had understood her tragedy, and in it he found comfort. It was so familiar. Retying his cravat, he made his way upstairs, and then upstairs still, following the chaotic yet soft energies of Mundungus until he saw him. "You shouldn't have done that," he said then. 

All this time, Mundungus had been there, in the dark, listening. Trying not bark a laugh, or give a snarky comment over the mere suggestion that he was anyone's servant. Trying not to think why Edgar's concern made him annoyed, uncomfortable and amused at the same time; why he was both glad and offended that the key had been chosen over him. Pettiness, he told himself, tempted him to reach for the key before Edgar could. Stealing the key once again and... and...  he could've given it back, taking Nefertiti's punishment on himself. After all, she already haunted his house, how much different would it be. But he knew the pain that was hidden under all of Nefertiti's anger, he knew because he had tried time and time again to balm it with every trinket that had the misfortune to get captured by his fingers. In the end, Mundungus was a selfish coward and a gambler. He could take the risk of having Nefertiti play with Edgar, but not of stealing from her. So, he left, made his way up while they talked about poets, waiting for Edgar upstairs. 

"Done what?" Mundungus asked, not a sign of remorse in his voice. If anything, he sounded almost surprised. "What have I done this time?" he asked, with a lazy, yet mostly bittersweet, smirk on his face. 

Edgar closed his eyes. "This key..." His hand wanted to reach for it, but he didn't want to show Mundungus where he'd hidden it again,  so instead he slid his hands into the backpocket of his trousers and sighed, opened his eyes again. "Did you know it was important to me or did you just take it because it was shiny? Like a magpie?"

Mundungus’ giggly hiccup went away, but he still looked at Edgar with an amused look in his eyes. Especially because one didn’t need to be particularly smart to know how that phrase ended. Essential reading. Essential reading for wix children. Not devils. His amused smirk widened into a lopsided smile, a little wicked, the way one smiles over an inside joke of some kind. It stayed on his lips even as a little frown formed on his face when he watched Edgar recovering the book in question. His attention was more drawn to the hidden bookcase, and he would’ve eyed longer if Edgar hadn’t gone on a ramble about clouds and machine and something funny. “…. Okay..” he said, clearly confused, and not yet really interested in the book. If anything, knowing it was such essential reading material made him want to ignore it more.

“Mandolins. I would go for mandolins next,” Mundungus corrected him, but he did so with his own dash of dramatics as he put on a Very Serious Expression™ and gave a Very Serious Nod™, the kind he would usually see Caradoc Dearborn give. “The fiddle after that.” For all of his dramatics, though, it was a genuine relief that pervaded him when Edgar told him the article had never been printed in the end. He didn’t really care about the integrity of a journalist—he thought it to be a myth, anyway—but he cared about the theatre, and it would’ve been sad to see all those stories, all those secrets, legends of their own, printed on The Daily Prophet for everyone to read. For everyone to just ignore, turning into nothing more but paper on which to put your cuppa down. “I would’ve judged ya if ya ended up printing ‘em. Ya didn’t, so it’s brilliant,” he replied, with a shrug, as if he had no skin in the game even he had more than that in it. A whole heart. “Because it’s simply not how they are supposed to be told or learned. Ya would’ve sucked all the fun out of it.” And all the life. Edgar was right, it would’ve been like mocking people of the theatre.

His little tease went unanswered, but it didn’t completely failed to hit. Mundungus followed Edgar’s gaze to the bottle of Mezcal surrounded by children literature, and he couldn’t help the pleased and a bit too smug smile on his face as he went back to look at Edgar. His gaze was free to roam and linger, here and there, going unnoticed, and he indulged in it until a bargain was offered, and then he had to finally look at the book.  His rebellious heart wanted to scoff at it. He didn’t want a wix book for wix children. But in Edgar’s hand, it looked so innocent, so pure as they would put it, innit? His rebellious heart then wanted nothing more to get his very impure hands on it. “Well, it isn’t..” he said, unconsciously licking his lips, “but I guess I can make an exception for ya. But ya have to pay upfront,” he added, motioning for Edgar to hand over the book. “Deal?”

//

Edgar woke up naked and painfully sober. He remembered everything, and it was strange. He remembered the vivid back and forth Fletcher and him had shared, the jokes and the laughter, and how they’d taught each other marvellous stories from the world of theatre, which both had lived in for so long that they’d thought there was no one else left to still teach them anything new. But here they’d been. He remembered the posters, soon taken down and even sooner forgotten. And he remembered that when he handed Fletcher the book of Carlisle, and their hands had brushed, neither of them had really thought it an accident. And it was strange because Edgar could not remember the last time he’d slept with someone while sober.

It was all there, the sensations and touches, the sounds of heavy breaths and the chills caused by fingertips, and the warmth. Oh, this warmth. It was a chill that woke him up, many hours later. The memories rushed to come back to him, and with a chuckle, he had to indulge the scent and taste and images all over again, covering his face with his arm as he felt himself blushing. “Well done, Fletcher,” he hummed, shaking his head. How long had Edgar managed to resist? Exactly three hours and fifteen minutes? And he’d tried. He really had. His arm uncurled and fell onto the mattress next to him, finding no one. He turned his head and found the bed, the room, empty. The posters were still there, but Fletcher was gone. Or at least it looked like the posters were still all there, but Edgar wasn’t blind enough to believe that Fletcher hadn’t taken at least one thing from this room. After all, that was why he’d come here in the first place. To steal something.

Not thinking much of it, Edgar got up and got dressed. This was his childhood bedroom; none of the memories in here really mattered. It was only when he faced the mirror to tie his cravat that he saw it. Or really, saw the lack of it: his earring was missing. 

He felt his heart drop and hurried back to the bed, checking between the covers and pillows and underneath to see if it had fallen out last night, but of course, deep down, he already knew the answer. He felt sick. The only possession of his that mattered, the only possession that wasn’t really his. “Fuck.” His path led him directly to the room in which they kept the Minutes, searching through it to find the entry from when they’d initiated Fletcher. But there was nothing, only a note that Dumbledore had vouched for him. No address, no note on how to find him. “Of course not.” First rule of being a master at pretending to be other people was to be no one yourself. Edgar’s blood was boiling.

Unfortunately for Fletcher, Edgar knew the people he kept with, and had always had a thing for research. Before the bells chimed nine, Edgar was down in Wizarding London, and lucky for him, most thespians were just on their way home from a long night out. He caught them and asked, and indeed, most of them pointed to the apartment Edgar had been to in January, but which had rather obviously not been filled with stolen goods. So when one Witch, a rather young actress, said she knew however a bar which occasionally received letters from Fletcher, Edgar thanked her shortly. He reached the bar when it was already closed, but he knew it well and knew the owners lived in the apartment above. So he rang them awake until they opened and asked if they knew of any letters from a Mr Mundungus Fletcher. They said that yes and after he urged them rather sternly, they showed him one of the envelopes. As expected it had no return address but it was good enough. Edgar brought it to an owlery, showed it to the owl and explained to her his issue, then put it into yet another envelope and wrote on its front Fletcher’s name. “And don’t you dare fly too fast,” he told the owl, and let her go. 

His heart was pounding the entire time he was following her, missing beats whenever she momentarily disappeared behind the rooftops, and skipping whenever she reappeared. He was lucky it wasn’t a long flight, because by the time she suddenly sat down on the window sill of a rather inconspicuous building, he’d nearly been running to keep up with her. His breath was sharp in his throat, and sweat was running down his temples. But it was all worth it. All worth it to keep the key safe. He looked up at the building. So this was where the infamous Mundungus Fletcher lived… In the middle of London, in plain sight. The owl knocked on the window but no one opened her. But she also didn’t fly away, meaning that Fletcher was home. Either he’d seen Edgar through the window and was hiding, or he was somewhere else in the building. “Only one way to find out.” 

Grimly, he took out his wand and pointed it at the door. And for once, his magic was strong and willing. Bursting in, he walked without hesitation, following the chaotic but soft energies of Fletcher through the building, now certain that he was in the right place. They led him down, and further down still, having him realise long before he saw the first tracks that this was an old, abandoned tube station. What he realised too late, however, was that the cold, acid energies filling this place wasn’t just the fact that he was underground, but that there was another presence here. Something old. Something angry. Something dead. 

She shone bright in the dark, with fury keeping her tied to this world she floated above the ground and fixated him with her eyes. Through her body passed the smoke of Fletcher’s cigarette but she didn’t seem to notice. “What do you want?” she asked Edgar, who had always feared ghosts too much but today knew he couldn’t flinch or leave, no matter how scared he’d get. So he pointed at Fletcher, behind her, who was restlessly pacing but keeping his gaze averted. “He stole something from me.”

“That is what he does. Leave.”

“I can't. I need it back.”

"If you had need it so badly, you would've made sure no one would take it away from you." A pause. "What is it?"

Time: April 15th Place: House of Bones Status: Closed, Self-Para [ Part I ] [ Part II ] [ Part III ]

He let go of her face, then turned towards the stairs.

“Edgar!” she held onto his arm. Just like she’d always done when they were little and he went off to go on an adventure by himself. She’d never liked that; he’d eventually stopped going.

He turned back and smiled. “Nothing will change.” Except the future of unspoken possibilities that they’d never dared to discuss. 

“I can go and do it!” 

He slipped his arms from her grasp, linked their fingers instead. “And how would that change anything?” 

“You could still go and travel. You could still-...” The list was quickly exhausted. And why wouldn’t it. She was the only real item on it, the same way he was on her list. “I don’t want you to be tied down.” Without me. 

He brought her hand to his lips and gave it a kiss. “Go on. Wait upstairs now.” The decision was made.

Edgar pushed the quill into his wrist. 

His name was brighter than the others above. It would take time for the blood to dry and darken.

Then he took the ring out from the little hollowing where the ink was supposed to be and looked at it. He’d been given it on Yule night but this was the first time he allowed himself to see it. Small and delicate, it barely weighed anything. Serafina Bones herself had worn it, they said, crafted by Goblins and therefore made to last forever, its magic never fading. Neither the carved crest on its flat side: the dog and the cat holding a fleur de lis.

Its image hung in the entrance hall over the floo chimney, the tapestry rich in colours, and Edgar remembered all the hours he’d spent looking at it, trying to decipher all the hidden details and symbols. Now he’d be the heir of it, of all that those symbols carried, with the duty to carry it on into the future as well. 

In a way, Laura had always expected him to do it, hadn’t she? Was he not the sensible Bones, the one who liked keeping organised notebooks and do what was asked of him? At least with him, the house would not be used for just parties again. At least with him, they wouldn’t lose all their money. At least with him, a future heir was guaranteed.

After all, he’d said Amelia goodbye now.

He put the ring on. 

The sound of hundreds of blood-curling screams burst into his head. 

The pain of flesh and hurt of heart of thousands had his muscles give in.

Images of countless lives passed his eyes, had him forget where and who he was.

A blood-drenched soldier reached for a bowl of soup. A knight with a lily on his crest halted his horse. Stones were placed on stones. Nuns, praying, crying, burning. The Sorting Hat, looking almost new. A golden-locked child sitting in a ring of mushrooms, laughing, then swallowed by the earth. A battle, the meadows all red, a single man standing in its midst, shaking. Rain. Sunshine. Then a little giggle, two teenagers sharing a kiss in a dark corner. A room filled with people and candles, dressed extravagantly and smelling of heavy perfume, joking and gambling. A rotting wall. Two friends, shaking hands. Laura, this was his mother, stomping down the staircase in trousers, and her grandmother yelping in shock. Darkness. Loneliness. Pain. So much pain. And then thirty familiar faces turning curiously. 

“Edgar.”

Amelia was leaning over him, shaking him. 

“Fuck, Edgar, don’t be dead.” 

He blinked and she cursed some more, pulling him into a hug. 

Caradoc waited as Edgar relived his memories. His gaze moving over a room that was familiar yet foreign at the same time, where he knew everything was there for a very important reason but couldn’t remember what that reason was and so he could only look on his own life with confusion.

Before the feeling could threaten him to become overwhelming, Edgar was once again back and Caradoc couldn’t help but wonder if this time it was the right memory. But Edgar’s question didn’t proved a clue to his own, and only left him with his little frown of confusion on.

Now, if he were to be absolutely fair then he would say he couldn’t possible know, could he? He was not in Edgar’s mind and thus couldn’t know of Edgar’s feelings. Except that, the honest answer to that question was… 

“Because we understand each other. We accept and trust one another for who we are,” he said, knowing that while he was far from being the warm and comforting presence that Amelia was, he was still someone that could understand Edgar for who he was. More important yet, Caradoc did not need many memories of Edgar to know him and recognise him as the one person that he could always trust. He couldn’t think of no other person who he would ever given the key to his memories, to his own mind, to all the versions of himself that he had to kill during the years. Nor did that many to know he was the one person who knew when Caradoc needed to let go of the war even for just one night, or the span of time that it took to drink a cup of tea.

All of this was of course Caradoc’ point of view on their friendship, it was why he considered Edgar his best friend. But he couldn’t help but think that it had to be the same for Edgar, too. Caradoc had seen his best friend’s illness but he had never turned his back on him or pitied him for it. Instead, he had waited for all the things that Edgar needed to count to be counted. He had gone to get him every time his friend had withdrawn himself in his own world made of love and warmth to pull him back in the outside world. And he knew how deep the bond between Amelia and Edgar ran, how tied to one another they were, how important it had been to give Edgar even just a single day before letting Amelia go down his same path in the Order of the Phoenix. 

Wasn’t that what best friends were for? 

“I wouldn’t trust anyone else with looking at my memories, and you wouldn’t trust anyone else to make sure there was always a cardigan waiting for you in the floo parlour.” 

//

Edgar had asked to see Caradoc’s memories to find emotions. To find reasons as to why Amelia was feeling for him the way she did. Had they shared romantic candle light dinners or had they kissed? Or were her emotions rooted in the same moments and silly instances that Edgar remembered and which made Caradoc his best friend? 

If it was the latter, then no one was at fault. There was no such thing as leading a person on, the same way there was no blaming the complicated machinery that was the heart. If, however, it was the former, if Caradoc had spent hours and hours courting Amelia and she had reciproked, if they’d gone on dates specifically designed to be of a romantic mood, but he had discarded them all, taken them out of his mind to focus on the war… Edgar would’ve been angry. To manipulate one’s own emotions by negating them to others, the way Edgar did it, by drinking oneself blind, like Fabian used to do it, or by simply taking them out like memorabilia, like Caradoc was doing it, it was nothing unheard of. It was common, and one couldn’t be blamed for it, especially not in the face of war. But if those emotions were tied to another person, so deeply that they could no longer manipulate them away, and then negate them, drink them away, or simply take them out, leaving the other person alone and hurt -- then it was a problem. 

Thus, Edgar asked to see Caradoc’s memories to find which one it was. He searched memory after memory, plunged into the pensieve again and again, and while so many of these memories were of the latter type, it was never the former type. And so, eventually, he sank against a wall and sighed. “I hate you no more,” he said, because now he knew that Amelia loved Caradoc for the same reasons Caradoc was Edgar’s best friend. It wasn’t his fault. He did nothing wrong. 

After a while, he pushed himself off the wall and began tidying up the memories, then locked them away, securing the key to the cabinet back to his earlobe. All the while, Caradoc watched him silently, with no haste or impatience in his expression. This wasn’t why he had given his friend the key to his memories, but Edgar was grateful he trusted him enough to use it for this anyway. He felt better now. Relieved. There were far more memories in the cabinet now than he’d expected, but he knew better than to scold or reprimand Caradoc for it. After all, that was why he had accepted to take the key, all those years ago; he understood the weight of war. 

“Oh, Radoc,” he asked, almost as if a little mocking of his own paranoia, “what will we do when all this is over? How will we possibly learn to live freely again?”

Perhaps Peter should have flinched back again like he had when Edgar had first pointed his wand at him, but he didn’t. Maybe it was the fact that he was becoming used to it, with the Dark Lord, the other Death Eaters, now Order members, all pointing their wands at him. At least somehow he’d managed so far to come out alive of the confrontations, if not a little battered and bruised. But being alive was all that mattered, wasn’t it? He was surviving, for better or worse, at this point. Still, that didn’t mean that it didn’t feel like a small sting as the wand stayed pointed at him and Edgar spoke.

“Yes,” His voice cracked, and he continued to try and make himself as small as possible, though still had yet to look up at Edgar. He was afraid to. He could see the fire in the lamps flickering, and he knew by his tone that he was angry… and Peter couldn’t blame him. Look at what all had happened, what all he’d caused. It was all his fault, and there was nothing he could do to take any of it back, no matter how desperately he wanted to. There was no fixing any of this. There was only a small hope that maybe they could move on.

“I am sorry, because I am,” he choked out then, “not just because it’s what you want to hear. I know that I’ve… I-I…” A soft sob broke his words, the boy looking down at his injured hand, mind repeating that it wasn’t enough, that he deserved worse. Part of him wanted to say that clearly he had blood literally and figuratively on his hands, but those weren’t words that would escape him, not if he hoped to keep surviving. And he knew that he was the reason some Order missions had failed in the past, but it hadn’t been by his choice, right? He’d only been doing what he’d had to…

“I never wanted anyone to die,” He whispered out then, “I never wanted anyone to get hurt. I never wanted us to fail. If… If Snape hadn’t told you, I…” He let out a shaky breath, reaching up to run his good hand through his hair, but stopped and quickly lowered it, both because he was afraid of what Edgar would think, and also because it reminded him too much of James, and he couldn’t think about him right now, not if he was going to keep it together. “I was sorry before any of it. I was always sorry. I never stopped being sorry,” He choked out then.

“I… I’m sorry for what I did,” He continued after a moment, shaking harder, “I never wanted to hurt anyone. I never wanted to cause any of this. I just… I just wanted to survive. I just wanted to live, and I was just… I didn’t know what else to do, and I didn’t know– and they said protection, and I just– I thought and I– I didn’t think, I just wanted to survive…” He was crying again, why was he so pathetic? He was crying and he wasn’t sure if any of it even made sense, and he could only hope that Edgar could maybe understand him.

//

Eventually, Peter showed true regrets. True guilt and true pain over what he’d done, and  that was when Edgar finally lowered his wand and the candles calmed down.

Marlene outright cackled. “Yes, it’s a good thing most of them don’t have a taste for meat,” she agreed wholeheartedly. “Well, not beyond the occasional nip for somebody pestering them when they aren’t in the mood, and I hardly think that counts. We’ve all got a little bit of that sort of friskiness in us, horses and humans alike.” Merlin, trust Edgar to propose the concept of widespread carnivorous horses. Kelpies,  tongies, and diomedians were bad enough already! She shook her head, but she couldn’t help smiling slyly as she heard his instinctive protest turn to curious interest.

“I can’t think what kind of ‘training version’ of a horse I could concoct for you – a pony, I suppose, but you’re too tall to ride one of those – but I promise I’ll choose somebody very tame on which to mount you,” she assured him. “No early ends for anybody.” She grinned and patted him on the arm. “I think you’ll make a fine rider. And think how swell you’ll look up there on horseback. Amelia will be so impressed when she sees it – or anyone else you’ve got an eye out towards impressing,” she added with a wicked waggle of her eyebrows.

Marlene nodded along with Edgar’s description of his testing of Lucinda. Maybe such a thing would have struck other people as rude or uncouth, but Marlene was as much a Ravenclaw at heart as Edgar was – even if people sometimes tended to classify her as a Gryffindor or even a Hufflepuff at first glance due to her boisterous and brash nature – and testing one’s friends and colleagues was a concept that carried no intrinsic malice to her. One didn’t test people because one wanted to hurt them; one tested people because one wanted to know. There was no harm in that. Indeed, Marlene would have readily volunteered herself for such a test if she’d thought it would offer any information that Edgar didn’t have already. In fact, she wouldn’t have put it past the man for him to still be planning a test of some sort despite his words; those might have been intended merely to set her off her guard so that she would react naturally. In fact with Edgar Bones, wasn’t every interaction a test of some sort? An assessment, a puzzle, an observation? It was one of the things she adored most about conversations with him.

“’A cup on the go’?” Marlene repeated as they made their languid approach. “Ooh, I like that. Sounds classy. ‘A cup on the go.’ That’s a much better phrase than ‘just take your damn cup with you and hurry up, the horses are waiting!’“ She laughed, then snorted at his joke about wallflowers. The only way the McKinnon clan ever bred a wallflower was by comparison to the rest of the lot; when out among people who spoke and gestured at ordinary levels of volume and enthusiasm, they stood-out like – well, like an Abraxan in a nest of kudarung. She wondered how Edgar didn’t so the same; yes, he was reserved in tone and motion, but the thoughts he shared were always so fascinating it was a wonder to her that he wasn’t the center of attention every time he opened his mouth.

Take his idea about death-by-patronus. It wasn’t something Marlene had even thought about before, but already Edgar was making her brain dance at the concept. He had a good point; of all the ways in which a person might die (and over these last few years Marlene had become intimately familiar with a much more varied selection than she’d once imagined) having it somehow be at the hands of or in relation to a thing of pure happiness and joy would be a pleasant one indeed. “Very well,” she agreed, half-joking and half-sober, “I acquiesce. We shall have to come up with some suitably poetic turn of phrase to inscribe, though. Something like that deserves more than just a plain accounting of facts.”

Marlene quite liked riddles ordinarily (especially proper riddles, open-ended ones that made a person really think, like the old eagle-knocker on the door of her and Edgar’s former common room, not the cheap word-games and verbal tricks that were the utmost limit of most people’s ideas of what a riddle could be) but the way Edgar had thrown this one out at her as though it were bait to divert from her course – as though she were a steed in need of distraction, being enticed with a handful of treats before she could flap away into some danger her simple equine senses had failed to note – had her raising her eyebrows at him instead.

“I would say it sounds like the sort of thing someone says when they don’t want to answer a question,” she observed drily, “thinking that it will be an interesting enough statement to bamboozle their listener into forgetting that they asked a question that hadn’t yet been granted an answer. Mind you,” she added with a wry smile, “that line about ‘more skulls than bones’ was very good, and if you don’t want to talk about how you’re doing that’s perfectly understandable, and I won’t pry…but if you’re doing wretchedly and it’s none of my damn business, just say that instead of trying to bait me with cryptic observations about bones and corpses.” She shrugged and added, “I mean, we can certainly talk about cryptic observations about bones and corpses. But let’s do it properly, when we’re enjoying the catacombs, not as an obfuscation for a different conversation you want to avoid.”

//

When Marlene left again, many hours later, Edgar felt both light and heavy, revived and nailed into a tomb. He had told her everything concerning his family, about Rigby, about the House of Bones, about Amelia, and she had told him about hers. About bringing a family into a war, about knowing you’d be the responsible one if ever something happened to them, about her worries concerning the werewolves. For the first time, Edgar had understood what people meant when they worried about them being in the forest nearby, finally managing to picture himself in the McKinnon’s shoes, and finally connecting his own need to see Amelia safe with Marlene needing to see her family safe.

So he’d offered to move the werewolves to the House of Bones. To many this might’ve seemed like a nonsensical conclusion, but to Edgar it made sense. It made sense to keep it all close, where he could ward and protect, it made sense, it made sense.

Time: April 2nd Place: Ladbroke Terrace, London Status: Closed, Self-Para

[ Part I ] [ Part II ]

“Now, you listen to me-,”

“No, you listen to me, Rigby,” Amelia cut into his words, pushing him back down on his chair. “I wasn’t pleased to hear about Edgar and the Order either, I promise you that. Especially not when I heard that people keep getting injured, some even killed. But do you know why they keep getting injured and killed?! By Morgana, you’ve been on Diagon that day! Because if the Order members weren’t there, it would be innocents in their place who be the ones injured and dead.” She pushed him down again. “The Order is not the cause of this war! They’re only defending themselves! Themselves and-, You know who else? Your daughter! She might be a Bones, Rigby, but Andros is a Muggleborn, and so is Evgenia, and no amount of money and social status will keep that girl safe if ever Voldemort gets his way. The laws might, but trust me, laws can be altered.” She sat down as well, propping one elbow up on her knee as she leaned forward, fixating Rigby with her gaze as she spoke. “So, listen, yes we’re using the House of Bones as a Headquarter in this war, and yes that puts you, Andros and your daughter at a higher risk, but listen, Rigby, if we didn’t, you’d be at a risk, anyway. But this time, instead for the span of a war, for life. Do you get that?”

Rigby sat immobile, pale. 

Amelia leaned back on the chair and sighed. “We have no other choice.”

“I’m still the heir.” 

Amelia frowned. “You wouldn’t dare kicking us out.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying: I’m still the heir. If someone finds the House of Bones, and my name’s attached to it, I’ll be the first victim. My daughter the second.” 

Amelia understood. “You want him to sign the book?”

“My daughter’s not my blood. And I’m not going to marry a woman, you know that.” 

Amelia was the one to sit still now, jaws clenching. Giving up Edgar; they’d been talking about that for months now. 

“And you-, you two-... You can’t go on like that forever. You’re going to end up causing more harm than good. By clinging to each other like this.” He sighed. “Edgar has been in love with women before, and he’ll-, he’ll take to being a father. At the latest when his child learns how to read. And if he-, if he thinks he’s not material to be the heir, then you do it! You’re strong! The house might just unhaunt itself if it learns you’re the new boss.”

At this, Amelia couldn’t help breathing out a little chuckle. She glanced up at her big brother, who was smiling back at her. 

“But I can’t do it, ‘Melia. I cannot carry the responsibility of our blood on my shoulders.” 

“Not even with your Quidditch uniform on?” A miserable joke.

“Not even then.” A miserable answer.

Amelia shut her eyes. “What about Colter?”

“He’s too young. And don’t you dare bring him back for this. Not into this … war. And you-, you and Edgar, you’re using the house anyway. At least make it yours. Properly yours. For all we know, it might just help you. It’s designed for that, right? To help its heir?” 

Amelia nodded, slowly. “But then you cannot come back. Not until all this is over. You’ll have to help us figure out what to tell Laura and where to celebrate Yule, and … you cannot be angry with Edgar. Because it really is a war. Innocent people are being killed every day and the law can no longer-... Fighting in the Order is the only way to stop it.”

The joke almost passed him by, partly because it felt odd coming from Edgar and partly because of his distraction. “Oh,” he gave a small hesitant chuckle. “Yes, the flowers will all be well fertilised.” He hadn’t meant the comment about Amelia in a particularly mean way, but he took the reprimand easily, almost expecting it, almost taking comfort in the certainty that if he said something bad about Amelia, then Edgar would defend her. It was nice when the unshakable pillars remained unshakable.

He was less certain about outcomes when it came to this discussion about Caradoc. “Well, we had arranged a training session for last week.” There was nothing odd about this, he and Caradoc had trained regularly when he’d been recovering, it was a practise Fabian liked to keep up, and it appeared Caradoc didn’t mind either. “But he didn’t turn up.” Usually, this would not have bothered Fabian. He was by all standards rather easy going. He had also forgotten his fair share of engagements, neither was he a stranger to turning up late to appointments. These were all forgivable sins in Fabian’s book, more than forgivable, barely sins. No, it was not so much being stood up that Fabian minded, but by who, and the possible why behind it. A pointed look at Edgar was all he did to convey those deeper fears.

“I probably overreacted. I got angry when I finally tracked him down. And then later, I-” He was not proud of the next part. Though it had started out as an accident on Caradoc’s part, Fabian was in no way an innocent party and he knew that. “I went poking around, in his old room. I’m not even sure what I was hoping to find but Caradoc found me before I saw anything. He wasn’t happy, understandably. We didn’t part on the best of terms.” And all that would have been bad enough, but nothing unscalable, nothing friends couldn’t overcome. 

“We had another training session scheduled. I turned up ready to apologise, expecting to talk it out, or duel it out, or something. Anything that might resolve it all.” Because no matter how he was hurting, he hadn’t ever wanted to stay mad at Caradoc. “He acted like nothing had happened Edgar.” He had stopped pacing then, his eyes were on the floor and he shook his head. “No, no it wasn’t even an act. He didn’t know. To him we’d never fallen out. He’d forgotten.”

With the expression but not so much the colour of a blush, Edgar kept his gaze down on the tea cup, now filled. There wasn’t much he wanted or could say, and so he just looked down, at the little porcelain thing in his hands, and allowed himself to feel safe. He kept watching the white steam twirl up as Fabian told him the story. Of Caradoc missing a training session, of the fight, of the memory, removed. He didn’t judge Fabian, neither for his reaction nor the way he told it now, full of upset and spiky energy, because, well, how could he? He recognised the story and knew the feelings it conjured too well, and thus he just listened, understandingly, watching his finger brush against the cup. 

It was the last word of his story, that carried all the weight, all the meaning, as well as all the truth, and Edgar let out a breath. A breath which seemed to have resided within him for years now, heavy and icy, taken once with a promise, and never released. “Finally,” he said, and raised his gaze to Fabian. The dark energies had been dragged around the whole room now from the pacing, and in midst of it all was the familiar red hair, a colour Edgar had until so very recently believed to be nothing but a symbol of joyful escapism. Of course. War had managed to get to it, in more ways than one. And Edgar? Edgar was smiling. “Took you long enough.” 

Open Starter Time: April 1st, 1982 Location: House Of Bones

The fact that people thought the House of Bones was haunted didn’t sit well with Amelia. Neither did the idea that they would be silly enough to be scared by it, or worse yet, not like it. It was an amazing home! Sure, it wasn’t their childhood home in Mexico, but it was their family home. Amelia had lived there for how many years? And she’d turned out completely fine, hadn’t she?

The thoughts continued to plague her, and so she’d decided to see just what she could do. It wasn’t like the house was really haunted, but if people were going to assume that… then what was the harm of playing into it and pretending? Maybe it could be a little mean, but if people were so preoccupied with their own prejudices about the house, that was their own fault and not hers. Or, at least, that’s what Amelia thought.

Which was what had led her to be heading down the hallway, talking to herself under her breath in Spanish. “Alright, if they want to act like that, then we’ll give them something to take from it. Let’s see how this goes,” She muttered. Finally, she stopped, cleared her throat a little and then let out a rather loud gasp, as if she’d heard something and was surprised by it. Acting. She could do this, yes?

“Richard! No! You are not allowed to say things about our guests like that!” She spoke, rather loudly, in English, “They are here for a good cause, and they were invited in! Were you invited in? No, you know what, don’t answer that, I know what you’re going to say and it’s the wrong answer. You need to stop being such a pompous prat!”

✵

Edgar had warned people about the catacombs and the courtyard and the East Wing, mostly the way you’d do it in a contract. Just to be safe and have no one accuse you of not disclosing information. Because while he had always despised this house and all it stood for for him, he’d never really considered it malicious. Not truly. Yes it had its ways and yes it was full of history that had been forgotten, but it was just a house. A home. Stones and a roof meant to protect its inhabitants. And in a way, he’d expected the Order to think about it the same way. But ever since the Frank encounter, where Frank had acted like the house was about to attack the other Order members, he’d found himself a little … annoyed. Annoyed by people’s willingness to read evil where there was good. Because it was just yet enough effect the war had on people, but perhaps it was also the reason there was war in the first place. 

So when he was sitting on the stairs to the Ivory Tower and saw Amelia stomp by -- feeling her presence long before he could hear her Spanish muttering -- he couldn’t help but smirk. He extinguished his cigarette and got up, following her quietly. Down the hallway, around the corner, and then away from her into a dark little corner, observing in silence.

Any other person who didn’t believe the house was actually haunted and couldn’t see a ghost, would’ve thought her crazy. He, however, knew what she was doing, and thought her brilliant. His little smirk grew into a grin and he folded his arms, watching the scene. Really, all the time he had made her read him his favourite plays out loud must’ve had its effect for her acting was on point. Let’s see if I can keep up, he thought and pushed himself off the wall to join her. 

These afternoons, though fairly new, had become ingrained in Fabian very quickly. He’d come to expect them, not with any great anticipation, but with a natural comfort in the surety that they would happen. So it was more by muscle memory that he found himself alone in the room with Edgar, than through conscious action. His thoughts had created a kind of fog around him, and apparently, Edgar had noticed it too.

He was pulled back by the endearment from Edgar. He looked over his shoulder and cast a smile, small and sad but still a sliver of light struggling through the fog. The joke drew a huff of amusement from him. “You mean I’ve been holding it til I get home all these weeks for nothing?” It was half-hearted, but again, these jokes were so deeply ingrained in him that even in the greatest shock he’d probably still come up with something. And he wasn’t shocked right now, just distracted. “Perhaps Amelia is the real malicious ghost.” He walked over as he spoke, picking up the teapot and filling Edgar’s cup without thinking.

He made to sit down but then seemed to decide against it, instead pacing about, but never far from where Edgar sat, as if tethered by an invisible string. “Me and Caradoc had a fight.” He started, and then tilted his head to the side with a wince, unhappy that his plainness left out much of the nuance of the situation. “Maybe not a fight, an argument. A falling out.” It was a confession he was not pleased to make, he knew it would not be pleasant for Edgar to hear about his friends falling out, but he had asked, and if anyone could give Fabian some kind of guidance it was Edgar, he truly believed that.

“Well, you have been spending a lot of time in the garden...” Edgar replied, and because he wasn’t usually one for jokes of impropriety, he averted his eyes, looking a little embarrassed by his own words. Fabian’s hands came into vision anyway, pouring him a tea. It had him raise his gaze again, softness in it. “Thank you,” he said, smiling. And with the same smile, he huffed out a: “Be nice,” because while he was almost certain that it really was Amelia who had planted all those horror stories into people’s minds, and that Fabian and Amelia were on ... rather good terms now again, he didn’t want to fuel neither the first aspect nor the second.

It was a common expression among wix, and Mundungus had grown used to hear it and just smirk at it or maybe exchange The Look™ with someone who, like him, still remembered where that expression came from. And, indeed, his lips did curve into a smirk, but he couldn’t help wonder if Edgar knew, if he was at all aware how right and insulting he had been in that moment. It seemed to be Edgar’s fate to end up insult the person he had been such a big fan of once upon a time.

Mundungus couldn’t contain the laugh that rose at the realisation, even if he tried at first, resulting in what sounded like a mix between an hiccup and a giggle. “Happy to say never heard of that prison,” he said, between one giggly hiccup and the next. Indeed, it was not the type of literature it had been read to him as a child. All of his bedtime stories were either plays, goblin’s tales or his grandmother’s exploits. “It doesn’t sounds very nice anyway, and how could it be when it sounds so French?” he added, with a little shrug of his shoulders and an amused smirk on his face.

After all, even if this time it had been difficult to just shrug those words off, he couldn’t help but share Edgar’s excitement over tales of theatre life. He had been as equally excited as a kid, and even these days it brought him a peculiar kind of happiness to think about those stories and how one comes to learn about them and how you could unravel the mysteries they presented.

“Do ya really need to research the Banjo Ban, though? Doesn’t the name already tell ya everything ya need to know?” he teased him, mostly because he had not been less curious and even now curiosity had the better of him. “Well, what exactly do you consider most strange? Because living the backstage, everything sort of starts to feel normal.” And it was true. What felt strange to Mundungus was what most wix considered normal. “By the way, what did ya do with all this research, though? Did ya write about it on the Daily Rag?” Now, here, there was something that wasn’t teasing, more like a sense of protectiveness over what were secrets that really ought not to be shared with those who didn’t care about the theatre and what happened backstage.

Mundungus wasn’t about to tell Edgar that the pockets of his jacket were charmed to hold even more than the stack of posters they were gathering, and they were indeed filled with even more junk than the one present in the very room they were in. “Are ya saying I wouldn’t look good waddling like a Chaser after a three-day-long Quidditch match?” Pause. “Tsk.” Tongue click. 

Then, a mischievous look came about him as Edgar accused him once again of speaking the devil’s tongue, even if not in such exact words. He smiled looking all too pleased of the situation. “Well, well, you have two choices now. Either ya think I’m speaking the devil’s tongue again and risk on missing out watching a Kemp bootleg. Or believe me and have to persuade me to show ya one.” He wiggled his eyebrows, a bit suggestive but mostly to playfully tease him.

“What?” Edgar asked, and the word tumbled out of him with just too little composure to make it sound a) like a mocking but barely invested ‘what’ or b) a dramatic, playful and over-acted ‘what’ of shock’. It sounded very genuine and very genuine he was about his surprise that this Wix before him had never read Carlisle. “But that’s such an essent-... Wait.” He crossed the room, the poster he’d just taken off dropped into the box without being rolled up first. His hands met the now bare wall, brushing along it curiously until they found what Edgar was looking for, then gave the wall a little knock. The wall let out a sigh, and as though relaxing, it shifted forward, then to the side, revealing a large bookshelf hiding behind it, filled to the brim with stacks and stacks of all sorts of books. Edgar barely needed to skim the titles to know where he’d find Carlisle, reaching for it only a couple of seconds later. It was a small little thing with illustrations made of water-colours, and with it in hands, he turned back to Fletcher. “It’s about this Wizard who wants to find out where clouds come from because he loves clouds so much, and then he discovers there’s a cloud machine in the sky that makes sure the clouds come out in all sorts of shapes. But he loves clouds so much, he decides he wants them all for himself, so he steals the machine and brings it home and-... Well, you can imagine, all sorts of problems arise and it’s-, it’s really funny.” 

He laughed and it was a proper laugh, with sound and melody. “Attention everyone,” he called out to the invisible audience in the room, “we have an anti-banjoist in our midst! Please do not make rash movements or panic, and hold onto your guitars tightly, he might come for them next.” It was silly, and for once Edgar didn’t pause to make sure the other person knew he was being silly, or even really realise that it was out of his habitual serious demeanor around strangers and distant acquaintances. He sobered up a little at the mention of what his research had been for, though. “It was meant to be an article for the Prophet, yes,” he nodded. “But it was never printed. My editor didn’t really care and said it was too niche and I-...” He shrugged. “I didn’t insist. I-...” He hummed. “I don’t really know why. I know those legends are important and there’s probably a lot of people who’d care and I should probably show some journalist integrity but-...” Another hum, another shrug. “Don’t judge me too hard for it, but maybe I thought it would be sad to reveal the secrets of theatre like that. Like it would take the fun out of it. Or like it would mock those who would continue abiding to those rules to avoid haunting.”

Edgar’s detailed description of his struggles with heels got a surprised laugh out of her, especially when he decided a visual demonstration was needed too. “You have my sympathies,” she nodded, both very sincerely and at the same time as part of the joke. “I’ve heard building up to it helps, if it matters. So if you ever decide to repeat the experience, maybe start out smaller.” She reached out to push his fingers a lot closer together as a means to illustrate, as if it wasn’t already perfectly clear what she’d meant. “And I don’t want to hear any of that talk. You look wonderful, dressing up or not.”

‘A little misguided’ was entirely accurate, if maybe a bit of a nice way to put it. Arabella didn’t interrupt before he’d fully explained, and even after he had, she remained quiet for a moment. “I’m actually going to speak to Benjy soon,” she said finally. “Hopefully about what happened at the Daily Prophet. And if that goes well… maybe we can really see about this redirection.” She didn’t know how hopeful she was that this plan of Edgar’s would work, but it was worth a try either way. She also didn’t add that she would let him know about the outcome of that conversation as soon as it was over; at this point, it went without saying. “Have you spoken to Dorcas recently? Or have you only assumed she wouldn’t listen?” His reasons for assuming that were more than solid, of course, and it wouldn’t surprise Arabella if he was right. She was still curious to hear his answer.

Oh, Edgar had always loved other people’s laughs so much. Even when he’d been but an angry teenager, spiteful against the world and everyone inhabiting it, he’d never been able to not perk up when he’d heard someone laugh. For just a moment this feeling of fondness and, well, pride, made him look like a well-petted, purring cat, then he dissolved into his own little laugh. “I’ll take the advice into consideration. Though I fear that if I do start practising walking in heels and any of my older brothers catch sight of that, a lot of money will be passed under the table.” Which was a reference to the fact that both Dell and Rigby had always suspected some queerness in Edgar, and its extent had often been a talking point over family dinners, including lists, charts and entire betting polls. “Oh, my raven friend, why are you so against me being humble? Don’t you know that my head is big enough without you giving your best to inflate it?” A pause. “I still return the sentiment, though.”

The apology surprised Maurice. He hadn’t been looking for one, and he didn’t think he’d pressed Edgar into it, so it must have come from some genuine guilt. Maurice had not thought to blame Edgar, he was still too shaken to really play the blame game yet, but even so, Edgar wouldn’t have been high on this list. However, he knew Edgar wouldn’t have apologised if he hadn’t meant it, and so he didn’t brush it away, or tell him it wasn’t his fault. Instead, he nodded concisely. His own guilt sparked. Here was Edgar apologising for his own lapse in action, when it might all have been avoided if Maurice hadn’t been too proud as to listen to Lu’s warning, or to at least investigate it, take steps to prevent its fruition. “Hindsight’s a bitch.” His eyes didn’t quite meet Edgar’s eyes, not sure if the words were for himself, or for the man in front of him.

Where would he go now? He hadn’t given it much thought. Home he supposed. But then all throughout the meeting, despite everything, his mind had wandered to Dedalus, or rather, Dedalus’ absence. It was a silly thing to fixate on, after everything that had happened today, but the nagging question of whether Dedalus was safe or not wouldn’t leave him alone until he’d answered it. So with his guard down he nearly answered exaclty that, to Dedalus’, but then Edgar carried on and Maurice realised the question had meant something entirely different.

“Oh, you mean with the show.” Anger slowly overpowered the guilt that had been rumbling. “I don’t know what I can do. Those bastards destroyed all my equipment.” Even if could be fixed, he didn’t particularly feel like going back to the Potter Estate to grab it. “It’s going to take me a while to get it up and running again.” Lu had gotten everything they’d wanted, Mundungus couldn’t be on the show if there was no show at all. “And I need- I need more safety precautions, I got complacent.” He stopped, anger luring him into exactly what he wanted to avoid, giving Edgar more information than he wanted to.

Maurice smiled but it was more of a grimace. “You’re just one man Edgar, how can you make sure of all that?” Even with a whole army, Maurice wouldn’t have trusted that promise. How could you prevent an ambush if the enemy were dead set on it?

“It is,“ Edgar nodded, lips pursed, “Too bad it’s the only sight we seem to have sometimes.“ The fact that there seemed to be a lag between Maurice’s ears and his mouth had Edgar raise his eyebrows. He didn’t judge. Couldn’t, because there’d just been a battle, and nerves needed time to settle. But he did wonder what Maurice thought he had meant. Politeness kept him from asking, though.

It was almost a relief, to hear Maurice’s more familiar tone return. In his mind, Edgar checked each of Maurice’s points: Equipment could be fixed, bought anew. It would take a time? They had time, at least on this. Especially if it was to take more safety precautions. They had to be able to take time to make their operations safe. But he said none of this, only nodded – partly because Maurice knew all this, partly because it wasn’t exactly what he’d meant with his question.  “But are you ready?” he asked, not doubtful but in a tone that hoped for honesty. “Do you want to continue?” Because, yes, Maurice was already inventorying all the problems at hand why it would be difficult, but that was just a thing people like him – like Edgar – did. It didn’t speak of whether he felt ready. “If you say you are, I’ll believe you, I have no interest to make decisions for you. But you did just see the worst of the worst come to life, and if you’re not ready to resume your work right away, then no one will-… I won’t make you.”

Lucinda stayed exactly where she was as Edgar took a step closer, towards the uh, World’s Door. As he’d described the door and it’s qualities, Lucinda felt the hairs on her neck stand up straight, images from the Attack only a few days before flashing across her mind. Specifically, she remembered the man trapped beneath the chandelier. It had been thrilling as it happened, but, as usual, had disturbed her the day after. This sort of magical item was the sort she’d always been afraid to face. Something that would see beyond the persona she tried to show together and see the less savory sides of her. That, ultimately, the only talent she seemed to have was a talent for hurting people.

What would this Door have to say about her?

“That’s something I absolutely never need to find out.”

She stepped only a step closer. Just clos enough to once again stand beside Edgar. She stared up at his face.

“Are you so certain it would judge you well?”

Lucinda looked hesitant. Good. Edgar would’ve been worried had she just thrown herself through that door. He regarded her for a moment, finding a little chuckle escaping him at her non-chalant response. 

“Not at all,” he replied. “But I believe true curiosity goes beyond the hope for success.” He looked at the door, his thumb brushing over his bottom lip pensively. “I’ve been waiting for so long to find the World’s Door… If I let it escape me now, I’ll potentially regret it forever. No, perhaps the chance is only a slim one, that I’ll find the world in all its possibilities and colours, but… What if?” 

Caradoc wasn’t sure what Edgar was looking for, and having not followed him into the memory he wasn’t sure what he had seen and how it failed to be exactly what Edgar needed to see. It was far too easy to misunderstand, but he trusted that his friend had chosen the vials carefully. “Try the others. Take your time,” he said, because this was his best friend and the only person he would trust with looking through all those memories that he could not remember anymore. 

When a new memory was poured, this one was years after Hogwarts. 

The room he was in was familiar, he had spent many nights trying to avoid going back home to his father and a cottage that felt far too empty. Amelia was talking with Edgar, but Caradoc wasn’t paying too much attention to what they were saying and their voice sounded more like a melody than actual words.

His gaze was fixed on the movements of Edgar’s hands as they moved through Amelia’s hair, gently brushing and then braiding it in an hypnotic motion.

“What do you think, Radoc?”

His own nickname barely registered, it was only that those hands stopped and Amelia’s hair rested still in them that clued him in.

“Hm? It… looks good…?” 

Amelia laughed while Edgar shook his head, but he was smiling.

“What?” Caradoc asked, confused by the twins. 

“I bet he didn’t listen to a word we said,” Amelia said, and tried to pout at him but she looked too amused to perfectly pull it off.

“Carrie, Carrie, Carrie.. what should we do with you?” Edgar had a particular look in his eyes that, by now, Caradoc had learned it meant something was coming his way—what exactly, though, was always hard to predict.

“I have an idea.” The two twins needed to simply exchange a silent look, a nod, and then they moved swiftly and together.

Caught between them, Caradoc was confused. “What’s happening right now?” he asked, as the Bones twins’ arms engulfed him into an embrace that was warm and soft and all the things he was already starting to forget. 

“Cuddle pile!” they shouted together.

“This is what happens when you don’t pay attention, Carrie.”

“Ah, I see, I will make sure to never get distracted ever again.”

Edgar recognised Amelia’s old apartment almost immediately. It was the room he had sought out again and again; when he was happy to share his joys, when he was sad to find solace. The first time the war had overwhelmed him with grief and guilt, the first time Edgar had called it a war, he had come here. And he brought Caradoc. He hadn’t known Caradoc well yet back then but he’d brought him here anyway, certain that in all this chaos and arbitrary, haphazard pain, there was at least one thing, one person, capable to soothe and make the world feel all right. Make it make sense. Amelia. 

Edgar remembered well that she hadn’t been overly fond of him bringing Caradoc to their cave of togetherness. But she’d thawed, and they’d become friends, and eventually Caradoc felt like someone who belonged in this togetherness. Nights were spent cuddling, mornings were spent chatting, tears were dried with kisses to cheeks, and frowns were eradicated by tickling hands to sides. And when the moment of departure came, their chests felt lighter. The same way Amelia had always alleviated Edgar’s darkest sorrows, and how Edgar had always brought peace back into Amelia’s stormy soul, they eventually allowed themselves to do it for Caradoc. At least that was what Edgar had always thought.

But Caradoc had taken out this memory. While Edgar treasured each of his memories of Amelia, knowing that they were what got them through this war, Caradoc had just … thrown it out. Logically, it made sense because it wasn’t his coping mechanism, it was Edgar’s. Edgar’s illness. Needing Amelia to survive was Edgar’s, taking memories out of his mind was Caradoc’s. And yet. It hurt. Perhaps because this memory was also more. It was a proof of friendship. A brick in a wall that allowed a roof to shelter them, and if you took it out, how was the wall going to stand, how was the roof going to shelter? How many bricks had Caradoc taken out? How did the friendship even still exist if he didn’t know what it was based on? This was what hurt. That Edgar loved him, like Amelia loved him, so earnestly and deeply, for all those moments they’d joked and laughed and hugged, and Caradoc could no longer do the same in return.

On purpose. Because of an illness, but on purpose all the same. 

The memory ended and Edgar was back in Caradoc’s old childhood room. 

He stood still for a while, then found his fingers running down the light stubble on his jaws. When he noticed, he buried them into the pockets of his cardigan instead. A cardigan he’d borrowed from the cloakroom in Caradoc’s entrance hall. Like he always did. An old, ever-repeating ritual for him, but perhaps foreign to Caradoc each time. Like enjoying dinner with Amelia in the evening. Like sleeping while curled up around Caradoc at night. Like the terrible fight that it was, each time, to get either of the twins up and out for work on time in the morning. It was a haunting thought. A hollow one. Like a cavity of which the walls were smeared with poison.