#frank 01

Nothing else matters. Not the people who try to help her, not the searing pain in her left arm nor the steady throb in her head. Rose can’t feel it – not at all. What she does feel, however, is panic. The type that grips her by the throat, stealing her breath and tunneling her vision. Her gaze is lowered some, constantly skimming at the height her daughter stands at. She looks at no one’s face – they don’t matter. Not when this – when she – is at stake. “Jo!” The cry is desperate, guttural, but still feels miles away. As if it comes from someone else, but really, it’s just her: a mother numb with panic. “Josephine!” Heads are turning her way, she senses them only vaguely, but their inquiries fall on deaf ears. She’s only listening for one voice, and so their warnings to not wander into the trees go unheard as she treks into the line of trees. Determination drives her forward, her cries of her daughter’s name continuing long after her throat has gone raw. And then finally, miraculously, there is an answer. Everything comes into focus the moment Rose spots that head of curls hurtling towards her. She meets Jo at a run, their bodies colliding and spinning. A sob wrenches itself free from somewhere, buoyed by her relief as she cups her daughter’s face in her hands, no matter how her left arm protests. 

“You’re okay? Are you hurt? Are you – oh, baruch Hashem, I thought... well, I thought... look at me, sweetie, are you alright?” The words come tumbling out, Rose’s line of inquiry stepping over her daughter’s. Jo merely nods to answer her questions, but she’s trying to say something of her own – something urgent, it seems, and so Rose finally stops, reassured enough for now. “Mama, look.” With emphasis, Jo turns, gesturing to a figure behind herself that Rose hadn’t even noticed. And everything stops. After so much movement, she’s suddenly deathly still, staring at a face she thought she’d never see again. “Oh. Oh.” She looks back to Josephine fleetingly, a sudden sadness settling in. If they’re face to face with this reunion, it must mean... “Are we... no, we can’t be. Are we...” She can’t bring herself to say it. She can’t come to terms with death like this. Not in front of Jo. And so Rose instead turns back to her husband, moving nothing more than her head, as if anything more severe will reveal the harsh truth behind this dream. “Frank?” She chooses her words carefully, afraid of their answer: “Is it... is it really you?”

Xeno tried the door of Mr. Mulpepper’s Apothecary and frowned disapprovingly down at it when it turned out to be locked. “Frank?” They moved to look through the large front windows, pressing their nose against the glass, eyes slightly narrowed as they looked into the shop, “Oh, it’s not even been broken into,” they muttered quietly. Raising their voice slightly again, as if addressing the general area would make Frank appear out of nowhere, Xeno spoke again, “Frank, your coworkers aren’t very helpful people.” 

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had looked like an anthill that had been unfortunately tripped over, people rushing back and forth, engaged in hurried conversations, desks left empty. Xeno’s entire trip to the Ministry had been spent reassuring themself that everything would be sorted if only they could report the break-in of their flat to someone at the DMLE. After wandering around the level two of the Ministry for nearly thirty minutes, nothing had been sorted. Actually, things were probably worse.

Apparently someone had broken into the office of one of those men who thought they were very interesting and important. Someone had stolen prophecy records. And someone had turned Xenophilius’ flat upside down and could very well have stolen something. Xeno didn’t think that was a coincidence. No one in the DMLE seemed to agree. 

The Aurors they’d approached had responded with varying levels of sympathy, but all had more or less agreed that they were currently too busy to consider the case immediately and ushered them along to the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, who concurred on the call of being too busy, though Xeno wasn’t terribly certain they believed them- the wizard doodling at the reception desk didn’t seem to have much to do, anyway. No one seemed to understand there must be a connection between the break-ins. Xeno thought it might have to do with the fact that the DMLE had stopped responding to their letters years ago, apparently unconcerned about all the potentially dangerous creatures and beings Xeno was simply trying to bring to the attention of the proper authorities.

It had taken a considerable about of cajoling, but Xeno had at least managed to figure out that Frank was investigating some apothecary’s disappearance and so was most likely in Diagon Alley. Even if Frank couldn’t drop everything to help- which would be nice, but no one had stolen an entire live person from Xeno’s flat so they figured he probably wouldn’t- he’d probably at least listen. And so here they were, nose pressed against the window of the shop, one hand braced against the wall and the other very gently holding the broken off head of a blue ceramic dragon, fished out of the chaos of their flat nearly an hour before.

“Frank?” 

who: @amphibianfrank​

when: may 15th, 1979

where: the ministry - auror offices

Ever since election day, Alastor had made a point not to go into the Ministry. At first, it was easy. Shacking-up in St. Mungo’s to heal. Then, it became a silent protest; a subtle hint to those in his office and above him that Moody was not content with the outcome. But then, the announcement of Hogwarts closing abruptly sent off alarms in Moody’s memories. To a time where darkness had encased all around him for months... 

Sighing, Alastor made his way back to the auror offices, still being cleaned up from the attack less than a few weeks prior. In his own private office, there hadn’t been any destruction; wondering if any of them had dared to sneak into his office during the chaos. Paranoid, Moody began casting revealing spells for answers - accompanied by protection charms to keep those fools away - but stopped when he heard a knock at the door. Turning, Moody’s new magical eye adjusted, seeing through the large wooden slab of the door to see none other than Frank Longbottom.

“Finally come to see m’ ugly mug, Longbottom?”