#apvstarter

Date: July 22nd, 1979 Time: 12:48pm Location: Hogwarts

The hot sun beat down on the witches and wizards who had gathered outside of Hogwarts that day for training, a rare cloudless day granting them little relief from the July heat. As Remus turned away from the group, he lifted his wand, whispering an enchantment and watching as his bottle refilled itself for the second time that afternoon.

The long sleeves of his heavy cotton over-shirt were itchy, the fabric clinging to his damp skin in a highly uncomfortable manner. Brushing up at the edge of his wrists, the werewolf reluctantly tugged the material down to cover his scarred skin for what must have been the hundredth time that day, pushing down the urge to just take off the damned thing altogether and settle for a t-shirt like any other sane person in the summer.

There were plenty of things to be happy about, of course. Surrounded by the high castle walls and thick forest in the distance, there were few places that felt safer than Hogwarts. Plus, when Remus had apparated to Hogsmeade that morning, he had heard birds.Not women, mind you, but proper flying birds that hung about on the trees, chattering away about whatever it was that birds had to chat about. It reminded him just how much he had missed Hogwarts. It felt comfortable.

However, spending most of his time in the cool and cloudy city of London for the past year, Remus had found himself forgetting just how dreadful a hot summer day could be until just now. And by gods, was it miserable.

Lifting the cool water bottle to his lips, Remus took several deep swallows, not entirely eager to return back to the group of Order members who had gathered together for the day. Brushing a hand through his damp and tangled hair, the werewolf let out a sigh, wiping at the back of his neck and knowing that his face must be blotchy and red. Brilliant.

Turning to his side, Remus was surprised for a moment to realize that he wasn’t alone. With an awkward smile, the werewolf held his water bottle out in front of him.

“Yes, I think the Minister of Magic is still alive. Perfect ploy this is, isn’t it? Jus’ think about it for a bloody second,” Sirius insisted. “I’m honestly shocked you aren’t seeing the truth.”

With everything that was going on, shopping seemed like far too frivolous a way to spend her time. But she needed to escape from it all, just for a little while, and Muggle London was the perfect place to do that; she’d go browse the markets in Camden, that was always fun, and be around people who knew nothing of the war.

Daisy stepped out the front door, shouting to her dad that she was going out. He called back telling her to be safe (sure) and not to be out too late (ugh, she was seventeen! she shouldn’t have a curfew!). Responding with a noncommittal sort of noise, she swung the door shut behind her and headed up the street.

The park she could Apparate from was only a short walk away and she reached it quickly. Daisy ducked into a copse of trees, so no passing Muggle could see her, and squeezed her eyes shut. Apparating was the worst, so uncomfortable and she was always sure that something was going to go wrong. But it was so convenient, it would take her half an hour to get there if she used Muggle transport. Concentrating hard— she would not splinch herself— she twisted into the air, vanishing from the spot. A horrible, airless moment later and she landed, stumbling slightly, but with all her limbs in tact— success!

Location: Makeshift Order Hospital Time: About 10AM

Over the years he’d learned to wake up slowly. He rarely allowed himself to bolt upright the way he wanted. Instead he’d lay as still as possible, doing his best to regulate his breathing as he strained his ears to hear anything that might tell him what was going on.

Today the sounds were far from familiar and he slowly curled his fingers into the blanket as he tried to pick out the voices that murmured around him. ~Where am I?~ The vague whimper and grunt of other people should have been a clue, and yet those too were foreign for they made no sense. ~What was I doing last?~ He ground his teeth as he wracked his brain, but the only memory he could summon was an image of himself stepping into the flue at the ministry. After that everything was a giant blank.

There was no help for it. He’d have to open his eyes. Blowing out a shallow breath he finally risked a squinting glance at the space directly in front of him and he was rewarded with a vision of an unfamiliar face contorted in pain and the bustling figure of a healer. ~I’m in a hospital. Fuck.~ But how had he come to be there…and who had he hurt?

Her daughter was standing in bright green socks in front of Florean and Fortescue’s, a splash of color in the otherwise desolate street. The little girl’s hair had turned purple for the day, clashing against nearly every color Andromeda had tried to dress her in before settling for a checkered coat.

It was odd, the way the war turned Diagon Alley into a different place altogether. Dull and grey, excessive brightness turned artificial and uncomfortable. Yet, none of it mattered to Andromeda when she caught a glimpse of her daughter’s form, permanently turning to whatever new and exciting thing caught her eye.

“Don’t stray too far, Nymphadora!” Her eyes landed on the pamphlet in the dirty wall, trying to decipher the worn out announcement to a book signing, and when she turned back…

Dora was gone.

There was no sign of her color, no trace of her bubbling laughter, nothing but void.

“Dora?”

She swallowed the knot in her throat, ignoring the way the damn thing kept creeping back into it, and it was just as she turned the corner to look for her daughter that Andromeda saw a now blue haired little girl at the end of the street. Her hand was being a held by a figure just a little off her line of sight, and she felt a fire of righteous indignation burn through her as she stepped towards them.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Date: July 10th, 1979

Time:  2:30 PM

Location: East Finchley Cemetery, London

The rain was almost too much of a stereotype, and yet it was very befitting the situation. When they’d left the small chapel Gideon had briefly considered to discreetly cast a shielding charm, but had, considering that he was the only wizard at this ceremony, decided against it. Now his coat was drenched and he could feel the water running down his back.

He wasn’t a religious person, the last time he’d seen the insides of a church he’d been a teenager, but Annie had been a muggleborn, and her whole family was catholic. Gideon had awkwardly stood in the back during the service, but had to admit that there was a strange, heartbreaking beauty in the rituals and the music. He could see why many found comfort in it.

When his assistant hadn’t responded to any of his owls, Gideon had searched the provisional hospital for her, with no luck. A day later, they’d recovered her broken body from underneath what was left of the Ministry. She had been in her office that day, like every day, working overtime because Gideon wasn’t there.

The ceremony was over. Everyone had payed their respects, the coffin had been lowered into the ground and now people were slowly drifting towards the gates of the cemetery. Gideon had briefly spoken with Annie’s parents, who had invited him back to their home for coffee, but he’d politely declined. He might have been an Obliviator once, but his muggle skills weren’t good enough for an afternoon of polite chit chat. Instead he would wait until everyone was gone and he was safe from curious muggle eyes and then apparate directly to the new provisional office that had been set up. There was more work than ever and they were, once more, running out of time.

It took some effort—Merlin, it took effort—but he managed to roll off the mattress and heave himself into an upright position eventually. Bloodshot eyes surveyed the room, seeking some kind of landmark that would jog his memory a little, help him determine his whereabouts, and came up blank. He grunted. He didn’t remember how he got here. Not unusual and not alarming, mildly inconveniencing at best, so he picked up the coat he had been sleeping under and shrugged into it, fastening it with shaking fingers as he walked out the door.

This wasn’t terribly familiar either. None of the decor helped him orientate himself, and he was struggling to recall the events of last night. Order meeting? Business transaction? He groaned, threading dirty fingers through his hair as he fought the splitting headache that was torturing him. Whatever it had been, he’d had a hell of a lot to drink.

He was looking for an exit, truly! But there would be no harm in looking, would there? And he’d always been more of a fan of touch. Perhaps it was his eyesight. Yes, that must be it. Growing bad with old age. Nimble fingers previously shaking were now running over smooth wooden surfaces, picking up objects so he could expect them with his excellent eyes. Not great, he decided, but might fetch a fair price on the market. Perhaps there would be something more interesting, more valuable in another room?

He’d just made up his mind to put down what he was holding in favour of exploring a little more when he heard a sound and dropped everything like a rookie would-be thief. He really wasn’t up to standard in the morning.

“Good place,” he grumbled, imploring his brain to formulate some kind of sentence to get him out of there before the owner decided to torch him, “like it.”

The soft light of the early morning painted the cobblestones with a warm orange that found the dark skin of Kingsley’s hands with ease, brushing into the shadows that played along his hands and the folds of his robes as he stepped into the small, private shop. A nod and a Galleon to the owner, a stout old witch with extravagantly piled silver curls, bought him closed drapery as the wizard moved slowly and confidently through the shelves.

He bypassed the shelves labelled for the varying sizes of vials lining the wood neatly, some smoking gently against the glass, others clinging viscously to the sides of the bottle. A couple more paces brought him to the shelves he wanted, displays and boxed items that floated or vibrated or smelled of wonderful things. A particularly vigorous red rope caught his eye and he stooped to read the label, eyes scanning over, “With safety spells included for both the bearer and the trussed, this product is guaranteed to take the knots out of figuring out how to best use these in the bedroom.” He barely noticed the person standing next to him until he saw them in his periphery, head filled with that red against pale wrists. “Oh,” Kingsley murmured, nodding his head, “morning.”