#february16th

Location: Strongarm Cottage Time: 16th of February, late at night Status: Closed, for @a-glasshalfempty

For about five years now, Edgar and Fabian’s friendship had centered around drinking together. Whenever one felt like it, they’d grab a few bottles of whatever they fancied that night, then show up at the other’s place, usually unannounced, usually with a grin, usually with the wish to just escape reality for a while. For a few hours they’d go back to the innocent ease of that Summer after the Prewetts’ graduation and pretend everything was just ... fine.

That night, when Edgar was finally given the permission to leave the makeshift hospital at the Potter Estate, he craved that. Not the drinks, necessarily, but the need to escape it all. The uncertainty that had befallen the future of the Potter Estate as well as the agitation and tension that circled around every conversation between Order members now. What was the plan? The next step? What were they going to do now? About Lupin? About the mysterious red crosses on that map? About Ainsley who was still out there, possibly having switched sides already?

Edgar didn’t know. He was aware that most of the questions had been raised to Alice, Mary and Caradoc in the past few days while he had barely managed to stay awake, just like he was aware that it wouldn’t take long before they’d be directed at him, too. And he didn’t know. He had no answers other than ‘We’ll figure it out. We have to.’ And that at least for now, in those dark hours of the night, there was no one there to figure it out with. It would all come in the morning, and the morning was still many hours away.

Standing on the front porch of the Potter’s house, looking out onto the garden, the driveway and the fountain, he longed for a drink. Something to give him a good sleep, make him feel rested, remind him what he was fighting for, so he could continue tomorrow. Could be ready. He’d warded the Estate again. Again and again, now that it was no longer kept safe by a Secret Keeper. But it didn’t help. And in a way he knew that whisky wouldn’t help either. He’d learnt that now. So often before he had teased Caradoc into taking a sip, but now he felt like a fool for it. His friend had been right after all, hadn’t he? To suppress unhealthy feelings with unhealthy means didn’t make you healthy.

Therefore, instead of going back inside, he warded the front door one more time, taking more time than usually due to having only one hand available right now, then made his way to Wales. The wards of Strongarm cottage let him pass, mostly because he had crafted most of them himself. Caradoc would still be alerted by his presence, but perhaps he’d be smart about it and not question it. Edgar knew his way around the cottage, knew his way to that room. Up the stairs and down the long, strangely winded corridor. Even in the unfamiliar dark he knew the way, knew to follow that tug in his veins, to the person who for years now had granted him a peace of mind unlike many others.

Yes, they’d been drinking together, and only ever kissed while drunk, but Edgar had been drinking with and kissing other people as well. Yet it had always been Fabian who he had come back to, who he had hoped to find first, who he longed to hear rant about ideas and ideals, to hear his comforting voice and feel his reassuring warmth. Yes, perhaps it had truly been the alcohol who had tinted his glasses pink, but what if ... not?

Surely, if it was just loneliness wishing to be appeased by a drunk night with someone, it wouldn’t have felt so logical to go seek out Fabian. Right? Was it really just a bad habit he hadn’t eradicated yet or the hiding, uncovered knowledge that Fabian meant more to him than a drunk hook-up friend? Ah, just like with most things in life, there was only one way to find out: empirical studies.