#nox.event009

( SUDDENLY : EVERYTHING. )

she lunges. looks as if she's about to fall. doesn't. she is desperately trying to reach for the items that lie before the archway, her fingers extending, the edge of a silvery wisp of fabric just barely within her grasp when a jagged jet of red light collides with her arm. another explodes against the ground. another. 

figures - uncloaked, eyes wide, ferocious, shoulders squared, wands drawn - flood the room and take it all in. the destruction. the sight of the others who are only now beginning to rise. bellatrix scrambles backwards, clutching her arm to her, unheard of fear tinging her expression. a tall man with a long, dirtied beard raises his wand again -

they disapparate. all of them. everyone dressed in black disappears, only one extending a hand to grab onto her shoulder and take her with him, the last scream of protest echoing in the chamber. the man is gone too. has been brought. he looked dead. 

( lungs fill - oh god, oh god, they might explode - everything feels red, raw, fire, burning - ) 

beyond the archway stands another man, his shoulders hunched, damp & ragged long hair covering one side of his face. he looks like someone. someone known, once. someone remembered. someone who never appeared on the other side like he was supposed to. they are so alike that it is jarring, sets teeth on edge, forces you to look desperately for just one difference, just the one to set them apart - if he smiled, it would light his face so differently. not charming. shy. it isn't him, but if it isn't, then who is it? 

he jolts when the others realize he's there, a deer caught in headlights. his chest rises and falls, rises as if he is gulping air for the first time in years, like a drowning man who has just stumbled from the grasp of murky waters, every exhale hurried so he can inhale again, sharply. 

not him. 

not sirius.

someone moves. does not brandish a wand, just makes as if they are going to move toward him, and then he is gone with a crack. just like the others.

( it is so hard to focus. it is so hard to see. everything hurts - everything blurs - everything twists inside - ) 

a shock of red hair. she's lying so still, again, slumped near to the items abandoned. another redhead on unsteady feet clambers the dais - does not care about these meaningless things the wild woman tried so hard to reach - and pulls her into his lap. "ginny, ginny, ginny-" his whole body shakes. she’s so pale.  

another's hand presses to her neck, and something blossoms in their expression, brightens a face that had turned a horrible shade of grey. "she has a pulse. she’s alive.” 

is she? is she, really? she doesn't look it. no one thinks it. murmurs of how it can't be, it can't be, it isn't possible. 

she doesn’t look it. maybe it isn’t. 

( a whimper slips past broken lips. ) 

"who..." 

( who? ) 

noticed with a gasp. the pounding of footsteps. someone falls to their knees and cold hands press against his skin and he flinches away from the touch because it is still too painful - it is a relief, but it is too much, his skin feels too fresh, and they don't know, or realize, because they are mirroring the action done already, pointlessly searching for a pulse that flutters too fast beneath their fingertips. 

they babble with senseless confusion and others loom above him and he cannot make their features out, cannot see through blurred vision, but they are... warm- familiar- they know him. he knows them. 

"harry-" 

a legacy. a life done before. a name forms on the tip of his tongue, the salve to undoing : 

harry potter.

ROUNDUP OF FATALITIES & INJURIES ( DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY ):

dennis creevey took a stunner to the back & was knocked unconscious. aside from some minor cuts and bruises, he's in perfect health.

aura hargate's knees will have to be put the right way around again, and this in combination with some unnamed curses cast upon her by thorfinn rowle spells a few days in st mungo's for her.

nellie diggory is badly shaken by her experience under the cruciatus, and some additional injury sustained in the chaos of the battle means she will have to spend at least 24 hours under observation on a ward in st mungo's.

alicia spinnet managed to break her ankle in the second tumble that she took, and has some cuts from the glass case that shattered in the elder wands room. her other injuries are fairly minor, sustained in battle, but she will have to take heavy doses of skele-gro for a few days.

luna lovegood is battered and bruised, though the worst injury she seems to have received is the long gash along her arm that rendered it unusable for the latter half of the battle. she won't have to go to st mungo's, so long as she promises to apply a healthy amount of essence of dittany.

hermione granger's cheek was sliced cleanly by an unknown spell, and she has a number of other injuries ranging in severity, including ones sustained from the explosion of glass in the wands chamber, including what may be a shard in the eye - the healers will take a closer look at st mungo's.

ron weasley is shaken up badly by his time under the cruciatus, and sustained a number of other injuries in the battle. some of his ribs were fractured in one of the dives he made to avoid numerous confringo's, and should rest up for a while.

cassia trelawney's right side is badly burned from her dress going up in flames. though they were able to be put out, the damage was quite severe - she'll need to spend an extended time in st mungo's as they work to repair it.

dean thomas will spend at least twenty four hours in an induced coma as mediwizards work to undue the curse placed upon his skull, and reduce it to its normal size. when he awakes, he'll have to spend a few days for observation. the rest of his injuries are mostly superficial.

ginny weasley died, so there's that, but sustained a gash to her head after being caught with a ribboning curse and has a large injury shoulder to torso that will require immediate medical attention. she's fairly battered and bruised, in general, but st mungo's will focus on the former.

percy weasley was tortured for a number of days. he will have to spend as much time as they can keep him in st mungo's to be treated for the injuries he received at the hands of the carrows in addition to the starvation and dehydration from what was withheld from him. the healers think he'll make a full recovery - physically.

ROUNDUP OF FATALITIES & INJURIES ( THE DEATH EATERS ):

mikaela karkaroff is generally fine, though she sustained some minor cuts and bruises in the battle.

niko karkaroff is also relatively okay, though his minor cuts and bruises pale to those his feet suffered following the loss of his shoes. that's what you get for being a death eater, i guess.

hazel graves suffered serious lacerations at the hands of nellie diggory, though a few days in a st mungo's ward having essence of dittany applied regularly to them should heal her right up.

alecto carrow has a concussion from being thrown across the room. she did not take part in the initial battle and would have escaped unscathed if not for this - her brothers nose is broken by the stunner that he took to the face.

antonin karkaroff fared well, but fractured a number of his ribs when he took a serious tumble. he needn't visit st mungo's provided he has a private healer he can trust to take care of him in this time.

helen buchanan was knocked unconscious in a fall and also will have suffered a concussion from it, however, she was unfortunately caught in a blast when one of the stone benches around her exploded. she will need to be treated professionally for these injuries.

WORTH NOTING:

apparition in and out of the department is impossible unless one is travelling with a member of said department, or has been given strict overriding permissions. the death eaters being able to apparate will likely be cause for suspicion, since the order of the phoenix were only able to apparate directly into the department of mysteries due to permission granted by the minister of magic himself. 

cho chang informed the order of what dumbledore’s army was planning as quickly as she could - it wasn’t quick enough to stop what happened, but she’s owed a great thanks for her concern. 

jo diggory & theodore nott, notably unpresent for the past five plot points, are alright. jo was left with cho at number twelve, grimmauld place, needing rest and recuperation to heal from the sectumsempra that hazel graves hit them with. theo was found soon after the battle and revived, and aside from being disoriented - and the use of an unforgivable curse upon him likely to be revisited later - was unharmed. 

OUT OF CHARACTER:

this marks the official end of NOXTMS : PLOT ONE. it’s been a great few months, but trust me - we’re in for some FUN over the next few months and phase ! individuals who had characters that took part in this event are welcome expand on their own re: the injuries sustained that aren’t specified, and we’ll discuss in the discord what our next steps as the dumbledore’s army group is. 

while nox remains at the masquerade, event wise, moving slowly forward through the night to eventually incorporate this - you’re very welcome to start private and public threads dealing with the aftermath if you’d like. all the more for fun ! 

applications for HARRY POTTER & REGULUS BLACK will not be accepted for at minimum seven days, as i don’t intend on letting it be a first come, first serve situation. lord voldemort is understandably joining the ranks as an npc.

( and despite it all, he’ll cling to ludicity : he knows that screaming, begging, yelling won’t do him any good. crying out somewhere at the back of his mind, the sickened thought : this isn’t good. someone wants you dead, and if you scream you’re more likely to die. you cannot afford your mother another dead son, another casket her frail shoulder cannot possible bear. in the face of abject misery, you resolve to stay silent / complacent in your own disappearance. that’s if they notice, what if they don’t notice, what if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it scream --- )

somewhere, a rustle in the dark, and resolve crumbles. it can’t be helped. “please, help me, please.” 

four words & suddenly it’s a performance / mask down, lights up, camera set, action. all the world a stage and the space is now a grandstand, one that amycus intends to milk for all it’s worth. he comes to life as if it’s that note of desperation that he’s been waiting for, puppet on string. he pushes wide the door of the room the other is held in as if it took force to burst inside, his chest heaving from imagined exertion, his wand clutched too tightly as if he’s ready at any moment to defend them from unseen terror. he looks equal parts terrified & frantic, as if he doesn’t know what’s around any shadowed corner and he wants to get them out of there as quick as possible. 

of course, his steps falter immediately. a true rescuer wouldn’t hesitate to release the bonds holding the other in place, but AMYCUS holds back as if assessing a situation that needs no assessment. there’s a waver to his voice. “percy weasley. merlin’s beard... your family will be so relieved you’re alright.” he feigns a look over his shoulder, all the better for appearances. “i don’t know how much time i have...”

he’s begging. one sound from them and he’s already pleading, as if the sound in the dark is a savior, instead of specters plucked from ephilates of a tired generation. perhaps it would be a mercy to cut to the chase, but the carrow twins, well, they’re known for playing games. that’s all this is, isn’t it? their way of playing god by toying with percy like he’s little more than a plaything in the hands of spoiled children.

ALECTO lingers behind as amycus enters the room where the weasley is kept, falling into her own role. “did you find him? do you need me to come help?” her distant voice slips into the overlap of breathless apprehension and uncertain hope, the cadence of a rescuer watching for the return of the monster under the bed. languid are her movements as she paces, wand tapping across knuckles. “you have to be quick!” 

if foreboding was a tight knot in the colum of a constricted throat earlier, it’s the cold tendrils wrapped tight around flesh now. solace would’ve been a warm blossom through limbs if PERCY wasn’t so brutally aware of who his supposed rescuers are : he’s no fool. the carrows’ faces have snarled up at him from posters since his days at the ministry, and a new wave of trepidity rolls right through a quaking, bound frame. ( as hard as he tries, there’s a buoyant little squeak from the backburner / “what if they’re here to help?” he’s many things but an idiot isn’t one, he knows that no good can come of the pantomime he’s found himself embroiled in. there’s nothing resembling hope in the scene that has begun to unfold. it’s strange, really : the brunt of percy’s heartache is borne of worry for the family he’s convinced he’ll leave behind. own mortal peril is LESS of a concern than their collective grief / he wishes, in these strange moments that he’s sure will be his last, that he could apologise to molly and arthur. sorry mum, sorry dad. you deserved better than this. )

“where am i?” he’ll try to amplify the modicum of bravery that’s set into his tongue, but it wavers / intonation gives way to distress and percy sounds like a fucking child, so far removed from his near-thirty years. “how long have i been gone?” 

he’s more intelligent than they’ve given him credit for. there’s a spark of recognition in those wide, fearful eyes that couldn’t be DISGUISED if he had the forethought to try, and AMYCUS is almost colored impressed by it. the emotions rolling through him - terror, dread, uncertainty, grief - were so powerful in origin amycus had trusted in a cloud of doubt thrown over their faces, but percy weasley is not as much fool as the family name implied.

he casts a glance towards his sister, the sort they don’t need to couple with words ( it’s an old wives tale that all twins can communicate by thought, but the carrow twins are an old time terror, aren’t they ? two little children born to blood, lying awake in the dead of night and learning each other’s faces better than they knew their own ). it says he knows, even while the tiny smirk that pulls at the corner of his lips says, but we can work with that. 

“you’re just outside of swindon,” he’s turned back to the other now and his expression is back to faux care, back to something that resembles genuine concern - all it misses, now, is the added note to a purposely trembled voice. amycus abandons this, now, going for confusion above flawless PERFORMANCE. “that isn’t a detail you need concern yourself with, percy,” long enough for the questions to start, yet not long enough for the printing presses to begin churning out the missing poster. amycus does not make a show of dropping the facade, once and for all : it is simply there, and then not. “the question is how much longer you have to stay.”

the hope in his voice gives way to an ill impersonation of courage, and ALECTO finds that it sounds little more than that of a child’s mettle. her brother looks to her and she reacts with a quirk of her brow, a casual cant of her head. ( he does? how boring. ) when she steps from the penumbra cast by the empty, unlit room she was waiting in prior, she looks a touch uncanny, with cheeks just a bit too hollow and pallid skin just south of a typical color since leaving azkaban. almost normal, if not for the little things. “quite ugly place, really. don’t know why anyone would wish to come here.” words border a taunt, an almost cloying thing on her tongue. only a matter of time before they figure him gone, and she’s called to work. certainly just enough of it to begin pulling at threads, to the start of unraveling it all. she takes a step or two forward, and it’s like she clisk into something, a return to herself maybe, when she falls into place next to amycus. she plays off of him. “and how long it’s going to take your family to notice. any guesses? no?” 

it comes and goes in waves : the startling clarity that chills him right to the bone ( i am going to die at their hands i am going to die here i am going to be another tragedy upon the family name oh god mum i’m so sorry i’m so sorry- ), and then the hysteria that crowds his throat, makes him want to laugh in sheer delirium. it is altogether surreal, to feel your pulse running cold one minute and chruning something intemperate in your ears the next / PERCY weasley, alone with the carrows. fate has a funny way of rolling the dice, only to leave you stinging when you lose.

“what do you want?” ( an altogether practical question / percy’s never been one to sit around, wait it out. their histrionics do nothing for a choleric captive ; not when blood is still running thick rivulets down palms of his hands, when he’s bitton so hard at a lower lip that it too glistens crimson. there is a trace of it on his canines. he doesn’t know. ) “i don’t have anything you’re looking for, i swear.” 

AMYCUS is a predator circling prey as he moves further into the room and closer, still, to percy. alecto joins him and only near to his sister does he feel - in an odd way, confident enough - to crouch at the others level. "don't insult yourself or our intelligence," it's funny, the contrast : his expression is cold but his voice is almost velveteen, low & warm & in any other setting, any other situation, nice.

"you aren't the only person with the information that we need, percy. you're here because ronald and ginevra aren't, but don't doubt in our willingness to abandon you here, alone, and finally introduce ourselves properly to your brother... or reunite, with your sister." he smiled. again : pleasantly. if not for the context of carrow, amycus would be nothing more than a professor expressing interest in catching up with an old student. "i promise that you don't want that to happen, and to stop it, all you have to do is tell us what we want to know."

pulse throbs something fierce behind eyelids, violent underneath the sacrum of his throat, helpless in the way he cannot move. “don’t you dare touch them. don’t you dare.” ( his heart beats a little faster at the mere mention of younger siblings. all those years spent chastising, picking at them, far too overprotective and never as kind as he should’ve been : symptomatic of a love that doesn’t know vernacular confines, that only knows the kind of rage that builds an inferno behind gritted teeth when they’re referenced like that. ) clever wizard that he is, PERCY can only kick out ; nearly loses his balance, almost topples his little prison over. it’s an adrenaline rush he needs / the kickstart he needs to spit another falsehood like a loose, bloodied tooth.

“i told you, i don’t know what you want.” and to some extent, he doesn’t : captor keeps mentioning information that he doesn’t understand. “nobody told me anything.” feigned reticence suits him ; percy makes a wonderful liar, all bruises and swollen despite the way lies make his stomach twist into sailor’s knots. 

there’s a roll of dark irses, a testament to patience lost during her time in azkaban. “you’re right, how can you be so sure you don’t know without us even asking?” cadence borders something sing-songy, something sweet enough to rot. long strides bring her around his chair, where hands push down on the back, balancing what he had almost thrown askew. the legs are strident when they return to hardwood floor. percy’s boxed in by them both, now, and though wands aren’t drawn, they don’t need to be to prove a point. “it’s easy, percy. where is harry potter? his body, his things...” ALECTO paints an almost innocent picture with wide eyes and relaxed posture as she lingers over his shoulder. “and a little tip --- we don’t take too well to being lied to. my ideal day may not be spending time with the most boring, self righteous weasley, but like amycus said, we can just as easily go to one of the other, hm, is it six of you now?” 

and the thing is, every fivre of an aching being is straining against this ! the hard line of a jaw is stiff with muscle, and yet it happens anyway : in light of alecto carrow lingering over his shoulder, circling like a vulture, PERCY laughs. it’s entirely humourless, dry and barked into atmosphere so tense you could carve it, but it happens. ( for what it’s worth he regrets it immediately / urge to be violently sick follows it, but he’s able to swallow that one down. )

“you think they told me where his body was? jesus fucking christ,” ( muggle london has fouled up that mouth --- ) “you can’t possible think they told me that.” hysteria is a slow bloom that’s spreading through blood and bone alike, deadly in the way it seems determined to swallow him whole. “every bit as fucking daft as she is, you two, thinking they told me anything. fuck.”

percy knows the price, knows it intimately before he’s even spoken. you don’t leave something like this unscathed, something like this without the battle scars to prove it. he knows, deep in marrow, that he isn’t leaving this alive. shaking, terrified, quaking with nothing but sheer fury, he steels himself for the bloe before it even arrives. this is what happens when you lie, when you laugh. this is what happens, and so it goes. 

the carrow twins move deliberately. they move as one. where one pushes the other pulls ( like opposing magnets, still connected in some indescribable way ), always compensating for the other on little more than blood instinct. alecto crosses to steady percy and amycus - in what is almost bored glory - rises, only then, to his full height. she leans left, he takes a step right. she focuses upon their charge, AMYCUS allows his attention to float. he undoes the buttons of his sleeves, both rolled up slowly to expose arms that are mottled by stark white scars & marred by one recognisable tattoo.

"percy, percy, percy," he clucked his tongue, caught between chilling disapproval & aching disappointment. there's a reason that he keeps using his name, as if they're old friends caught in something neither can control : a power to claiming it, an added threat. "we already know of the boys connection to your blood traitorous family. all those summers spent under the same roof, one more child for your overworked mother to wrangle... of course you know where he is. your family loved him."

"i'm sorry, percy. i know you'll tell us what we want to hear-" he sighs. gaze flickers towards his sister, an almost imperceptible jut of his chin given to urge her to stand away from the seated boy, and from his back pocket is pulled a wand that is, even without brandishing, a threat. "but we did tell you not to lie." the striking of a snake : predator meet prey.

she was almost breathless when she finally reached the drawing room and it's signs of true life ( light on, low voices, the creaking of floorboards beyond ), though it couldn't all be attributed to the flights they'd climbed to get there. everything all at once, remember? her heart beat a hummingbird rhythm against her chest and she didn't hesitate when it came to pushing wide the door, leading them in to face the music. "HEY," her voice loud enough to demand attention, she doesn't pause to explain the presence of a muggle, "WE NEED TO TALK."

windows rattle something violent in their frames ( HERMIONE’S conscience is eased by the charm she’d cast upon them months ago ; the glass won’t break, despite the deathly rattle that may say otherwise ) but their howl unnerves her regardless. however, they’re merely an ominous soundtrack : duelling practive is a quiet affair at 12 grimmauld place whilst the weather beats against the window. she’s readying herself to cast alerte ascendare when the door bursts open / hermione doesn’t realise it, but ginny’s arrival signals a new kind of disaster. 

dudley is strikingly familiar in a way that makes the violin strings of hermione’s heart pluck a strange beat ; he reminds her of simpler times, of harry and the hogwarts express / of a much smaller enemy. she’s seen him flitting around the ministry, never bothering to catch him. ( and she regrets it, never being able to ask him about harry as a child. perhaps she wouldn’t like the answer. ) silently, she’ll survey the pair of them ( an unlikely pair, she’s ready to admit ), watch the twists and turns of soured mouths -- panic builds just below her lungs, and her fingertips tingle.

“ginny? dudley? what’s going on?” it can’t get worse, it can’t possibly get worse. 

it would be poetic if DUDLEY’S heart was beating out of his chest, or if the adrenaline running through him had made him breathless but, to be frank — his brain had switched off the moment he'd taken ginny's hand. so, the familiar but awful feeling of his entire body being compressed, squished like a little fruit, only put a determined, pissed off, sour kind of look on his face. something akin to the brat he had once been. and the shadow of a man lunging towards them and then exploding into dust left him with a muffled kind of yelp — the warning had slipped back into his mind just as he watched the umbrella stand clatter. the muttering only seemed atmospheric and suitable, and he was so tired, it was hard to question anything. this had all become a dream, really — dudley saw the newspaper article sat in someone else's hands, familiar photo blaring forth, and it was as if his entire body had slipped back into sleep. this had to be a dream. 

dudley didn't realise he was still holding on tight to ginny's hand, just this side of potentially crushing it, until the door swung open and he stood opposite a myriad of ... surprisingly familiar faces. it's telling of the pure shock that his thoughts were solely occupied with the trivial worry that maybe he should let go.

"i—" his voice cracked from underuse, and it startles him, switches his brain back off track. dudley frowned, let his eyes flutter closed for a moment, before looking at ginny with a question far too big on his face — he knows he shouldn't put this on her, not with the news of percy, but he's beyond overwhelmed. all his mind can focus on are the minuscule details that envelope the room — the clothes people are wearing and the grooves in their wands.

even at the height of the war, GINNY had never felt exactly like this. back then, they'd known what the threat was - where it had come from, and where it would come next. hogwarts had been a warground long before the battle, yet by all accounts it had been a rather SMALL chess board. bearing the onslaught of a death eaters reign & rebelling against the carrow twins hadn't seemed easy at the time, but they had still managed to stay just two steps ahead. ginny knew, now, that they had taken that for granted. she'd have given anything to trade this day with one of THOSE - anything at all, to feel as if they were even capable of catching up.

his voice cracks and her gaze is drawn back to him, several realizations striking her all at once and ranging in gravity. dimly, she becomes conscious of their hands and the fact that they rest, still interlocked, between them. in the same instant, she becomes aware that along the way, in all her desperation, she let herself forget what had happened on any sort of conscious level. his expression - caught somewhere between lost & entirely devoid - makes her stomach plummet in a way that's all too familiar. she doesn't let go, her own grip turning vicelike as what seems to be an almost aggressive attempt at comfort.

"it's dudley's parents...-" her mouth felt dry & her palms sweaty, and her heart simply hurt. it's almost uncharacteristic for ginny not to lead with all guns blazing, and it's almost just as unusual for the dursley's to be referred to as anything but harry's aunt & uncle, but they weren't just that, were they? "they were attacked, it's all over the news. *his mum's been killed." she's addressed the room for long enough, and now her focus is back on dudley even as she gives another squeeze of his hand. encouragement, this time, to go along with wide eyed imploration. "it was bellatrix. she was...- dudley, you need to tell them.”

maybe he should be crying. maybe he shouldn't be feeling that distant relief when everything was going to shit – but when DUDLEY considered not ever having to circumvent a conversation with petunia again, there was less of a loss than expected. they were long past explanations and apologies and justifications, but with this, dudley realised : some part of him had still been expectant. some part of him had expected it to end differently to this. it was never going to end any different : one of them was always going to die and leave him with these unanswered questions, unanswered stutterings in his identity and soul, and it was always going to feel empty, in the end.

the second squeeze and his eyes shifted back into focus – away from the spider in the corner of the room and back to ginny's eyes and the fucked reality of the situation. he cleared his throat, moving closer to ginny, grip still too tight and really wanting to tuck himself just behind them – hide. hiding was too familiar to someone who wasn't him anymore, though, so he took a deep breath, and looked directly at the closest person who wasn't ginny.

"she..." dudley faltered, feeling that tingle at the back of his throat and underneath his eyes that indicated tears weren't far away – he didn't want to cry, not here, didn't want to be the weakling his father still thought he was, the weakling his father had swore and swore at over the crackling reception today. maybe if he aimed for a monotone. "she wanted harry's things."

of all the events that RON could have attempted guessing would happen today, this wouldn't have even made the list. this: ginny and dudley cutting through a dueling practice, their presence blowing through like the wintry wind pressing against the windows. though his grip on it tightens when they begin breathless explanations, ron lowers his wand. strategian mind runs in circles in an attempt to follow along. petunia, the only real remaining blood memory of harry, was dead. this should mean something, shouldn't it? he can't quite pinpoint the significance, but he does feel this deep, aching sense of unease. and amid it all, there's some pity for dudley, despite everything.

ron supposes that of course it was bellatrix's hand at play. this was her game, her move, and to her, they were all little more than pawns to be taken. yet when dudley speaks of her and harry in the same sentence, something red and cardinal roils within him. could they not leave harry be? could he not get some fucking rest, even now? all of it   (   percy, the dursleys, bellatrix   )   is like ripping open every stitch that was beginning to heal over the past five years.

he can't help but feel as though he's attempting to ask the wrong questions. even more, one that he might have an idea of what the answer might be. he speaks nonetheless. "what things, dudley?"

HERMIONE almost doesn’t recognize the rattled gasp that ekes out underneath a bated breath ; oh, she recognises the elusive hurt stamped deep in dudley’s eyes. reaching out to clutch at his wrist is an instinctive move, flesh warm against her own glacial group --- ( physical touch has always been a language of comfort, a reminder that the world is cruel but the flat of a hand is warm and real and that you’re NEVER TRULY ALONE ). “i’m so sorry, dudley.” and she means it, with every syncopated beat of a frantic heart.

nothing is still, though : hermione’s pulse is overwrought, a prominent vein etches itself into the thin skin of her neck, piecing the details all together has seem INANE before, forever heeded by chasmal gaps in an infeasible tale but whilst the wind roars its augural dirge, it all comes together. realisation is a horrible dawn across the fine lines of her countenance, and her grasp on dudley’s wrist tightens ( almost impossibly so, almost completely unaware ; her free hand quivers, entire frame sways with the frost - laced breeze ). words feel like they might be garbled, choked back ; instead, they’re crystal clear and weighted with inordinate dread.

“it’s the hallows, isn’t it? they’re LOOKING for the hallows.” 

SIX YEARS ON, it was all harry, harry, harry. harry's aunt, killed. harry's cousin, left alone, left a pillar of remembrance. harry's things. merlin, they were even stood in HARRY'S house, a ragtag army pulled together out of the remnants of the one they'd been, running through murky water and trying desperately to catch up. it was easy to get lost in just the thoughts of it all, and GINNY had certainly felt the draw ( everything led back to that messy haired boy she loved, had loved, was in love with, still, and rather than share the RAGE a part of her, a small part, a masochistic little part, wanted more, wanted his memory, wanted to cling to it all even though it wasn't fair ) - but it was dudley who grounded her.

it was laughably unlikely even as it played out, before them. dudley's mum, a loss of so much more than what ginny could understand. dudley's safety, because she didn't want to know what would have happened if he weren't in THEIR world, if she hadn't found him, if he wasn't here hidden behind a fidelius charm & under their protection. ginny hadn't given anyone else a chance to show themselves. she didn't even spare a thought to kingsley or to the order. harry didn't know the man his cousin had become, he hadn't been lucky enough to, but ginny was positive of one thing : he would want her, them, to be the one to deal with this.

especially now. at first, all she can muster is a nod. it didn't matter how many times they'd THEORIZED downstairs about the search, this was a kind of confirmation that had left ginny feeling the same sort of chilled bone trepidation that had now been surely shared with the room. it doesn't feel like enough, though. ginny swallows hard against the lump in her throat. "yeah-... yes. no doubt now. the- his grave, first, and when what they wanted wasn't there...- they must've known about the dursley's. that they brought some of his personal effects to them.”

the instant ginny burst into the room, NEVILLE knew something was wrong. he recognized the look on her face- there was a way in which ginny’s eyebrows creased together when something was amiss. who he did not recognize ( but quickly realized who it must have been ) was the man standing beside ginny. it was serious, then. for her to have brought dudley dursley. 

neville managed a smile, trying to catch ginny’s eye, to elicit what was wrong. in the old days of the da, they could communicate without words. they had needed to, as well. ( there was something nostalgic about those days, as horrible as they had been. at least, then, they had been shrouded by the walls of hogwarts, protected from the most serious of punishments by mcgonagall and the rest. but as neville’s eyes drifted to ginny’s face, he couldn’t help but notice the scar on her cheekbone, matching the ones on his chest that refused to fully heal. maybe not so much ).

but nothing could have prepared him for what she said next. the color draining from his face, neville stiffened, clutching his wand harder than he meant to ( the color drained from his hands as well ; it too became eerily ghostlike ). even twenty four years later : neville could not help himself from hearing his own parents screams’ flash through his mind, from replaying the invented memory of what their last moments must have been like. that it was not real ( he had not been there, when it happened ) did not make the memory any less visceral.

he swallowed, hoping it would dissipate the lump in his throat. “what do we do?”

a condolence lies on the very tip of her tongue, clinching NELLIE’S jaw in a tight, uncomfortable manner that didn’t suit her, but did tend to suit these days of war ( if you could call it that, because nellie tried desperately to not ). she doesn’t say it for a simple reason: SHE DOESN’T KNOW DUDLEY, REALLY. nellie can empathize with him in a way anyone with a mother could — and what would she do without aria? she didn’t want to think about it much at all, but dudley’s presence served as an ever-present reminder.

“they… didn’t get them, though, did they?“ her grip on her wand was so tight, nellie’s fingernails had begun to leave crescent moon indents. flustered, from the training and this sudden dawning, nellie wants to run and hide, or grab ginny’s hand in hers, or circle her arms around the stranger in front of her in a bone-crushing hug. this was bad, THIS WAS SO INCREDIBLY BAD, and the funny thing was that it felt unreal. “i mean —“ thought trailing off, blinking suddenly, “what does she even want with the hallows?“

was it the power of them? or… something else, something sicker? nellie couldn’t imagine.

flinching away from ron’s questioning and barely letting himself feel the warmth of hermione’s hand on his wrist nor her apology, DUDLEY felt, more than ever, like an outsider. the hallows and what they could be were a mystery to him. and now was clearly not the right time to be asking those kind of beginner, amateur, gatecrashing type of questions. so he kept quiet, he kept back, hand still held tightly in ginny’s – floating somewhat above his own self, observing everything with the curious eye of someone not entirely sat in reality. their words were just out of grasp, still understandable but it took him far longer to interpret them. 

nellie’s question made him snort which was, of course, an entirely inappropriate response. his voice came out quieter than expected, but the atmosphere in the room projected them louder than his voicebox could ever. “most they got are some of those shiny cards. chocolate frogs?” it would have been little more than that, maybe a couple of socks with holes in – but dudley took a ridiculous amount of harry’s stuff with him.

“i didn’t leave much. wouldn’t be surprised if –” his voice broke for a moment, eyebrows furrowing as he coughed through it. “– they, um… well, my parents probably would have burned a lot of it.” dudley really DOES NOT know if this is true, because a bonfire would have gotten them on the shit list with the neighbourhood noseys, and their fireplace hadn’t been rebuilt since it was blasted through by the weasleys. what was more likely was that it had sat gathering dust in one of the bedrooms they refused to venture into anymore ( except when they needed to feel sorry for themselves ), next to the decapitated wrestling trophies dudley hadn’t brought with him.

for the first time, her gaze meets nellie's, and GINNY gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head. not now, it says. it's not the time. dudley lacks the context of the HALLOWS that they've almost all grown up with to engage with a discussion about what on earth a madwoman would want with them, and in the worst way, it didn't even matter. he who possesses all becomes master of death. this is what they've been raised to believe and think as nothing more than children's tale, but the fact of the matter is whether it was real or not, there was power in the possibility of it all.

maybe they were nothing more than historical relics from a time when people believed in something more, and this was all they had and would ever be. maybe not. they knew, by now, what bellatrix was searching for... and if she believed in the power of those items, they had to as well.

"luckily enough-" a part of her cringes inwardly at her own WORDING, hating that their limited good fortune came at the cost of so much, "when dudley came to work in the ministry and left his parents, he brought a lot of harry's things with him." she doesn't have to look too far into the past to imagine a time when this would have bothered her. no matter how good of a friendship she had found herself forming with the other, there was a part of her - only extinguished in the wake of his personal tragedy - that would have bristled at the idea of harry's things in their, his, hands. it would have been a stupid, emotional response. she wouldn't have been proud of having it, and she's somewhat relieved that it seems to be gone - but she isn't in the business of pretending to be someone she isn't, and acknowledging that truth is a part of the battle.

"we've known for months what she's looking for. for all we know she has the wand, and the stone-" a lump forms in her throat, but dudley's grip steadies and urges her on. this should be a good thing, their trump card, the chess move that finally frees them from the deadlock they were in, but it doesn't really feel like it & still, they need to count this as a win. they HAVE to, because it is one, and because diminishing it to anything less than makes everything that has happened to get here a waste & a cost that wasn't worth paying. "but she didn't get harry's cloak. as it turns out...- that's one of the things dudley took."

HERMIONE isn’t consciously aware of the vice grip that’s scorched blazing carmine into the paled flesh of dudley’s wrist until she pulls away to pace. ( flashes him a glint of an apology carved in the dour line of a mouth and a CREASE between brows ; body language is so much easier than words. ) back and forth, along floors that groan underneath her weight hermione will pace to and fro, short little lines whilst she rifles through that encylopedia mind, trying to find any semblance of something that might not leave them so desolate, so empty-handed in the face of something quite as LOOMING and terrifying as this. ( strands of her own hair likely linger on the insie of that cloak. breath falters when she realises, chest judders under the weight of that knowledge. it means nothing, but it aches all the same. it is not abundantly clear, through brief mention and silent rumination, how much she misses him : that brave boy, that boy who saved her from a mountain troll, who made the ultimate sacrifice but left them to clean up the aftermath with irreparable bruises and broken hearts. it’s so wholly unlike him. she misses harry so acutely in this singular moment that hermione’s surprised she doesn’t cry. )

a moment of silence, whilst she gathers herself. she WILL NOT CRY, not here, not now. not when petunia is dead and bellatrix is looking for the cloak with her hair on the interior lining. “right.” syllable is an octave higher than usual, telltale sign that a RIGHTEOUS cocktail of fear and fury is malleating just under paper-thin skin ; a little feral in its maddened beat. it’s how she operates best. “dudley, do you have it on you? the cloak? you know where it is?” ( please, please say yes. please tell me you know where it is, that you’ve kept it safe. ) “we need to move him into high security protection as soon as possible. 

and now they knew. it is both a relief ( one weight taken from her, a burden shared by so many others ) and an added distress ( because if they know they’re in DANGER, they’re all in danger — ). with all their cards on the table, GINNY’S shoulders slump, a little, the prim and properness that comes with being 1/3 of a leader lost now that they are all stuck on the same sinking boat, field levelled. “he has it,” she says, because she worries if she doesn’t that hermione may break, “we stopped by his place before we came here.” in a way, she had sort of expected that protective instinct.

now for the rest of it : for the details to be decided. she had already given some thought to it. dudley lived with dean & dennis, two of their number ; he would only be safe with them for as long as they could hold out, and if bellatrix was looking for him, then they were in REAL danger. she was in full agreement - dudley needed the most amount of protection that they could provide him, and that would mean not letting him out of their SIGHTS from now on. “you can stay here,” she addressed him directly, her smile not quite reaching ever worried gaze, “it’s heavily protected and someone will always be present. at the holiday’s you can come home with me and ron, to the burrow - mum would love to have you & from now on i think it’d be wise for you to stay as close as you can to as many wix as possible.” preferably them, of course, but her mind was already racing ahead - they could escort him to and from work ( the upside of some ministerial workers being a part of their number ) and there he would be safe, at the upcoming christmas party if he planned to attend he’d be safe, at the weasley’s for a subdued christmas and new years dinner, he’d be safe.

“we can store the cloak here, too,” she still hasn’t returned to leader - she’s doing her best to sound SURE, but her gaze flickers all around as if expecting someone to disagree. when they don’t do so immediately... “there’s plenty of hiding spots all over this house, including where kreacher used to haunt - right now it’s the best we have, but we can reevaluate when we...- when we know more”.

the dursleys did a rather good job at pretending they had everything that they wanted, but they also had several secrets, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover them. they didn’t think they could bear it. over two decades before, mr and mrs dursley had awoken to discover a baby boy left upon their doorstep. well, mrs dursley had shrieked and dropped the milk when she found him there - and this was the start of it, you see. the very start of all the trouble. harry potter ( that was this boys name ) was the son of mrs dursley’s sister, mrs potter. they hadn’t spoken for several years to this point, and they would never speak again, as mr and mrs potter had been killed, their son orphaned, left to the only living relatives he had left. they had never wanted their son to mix with a child like that : one as unnatural as harry potter. but they really hadn’t had much of a choice. 

they had tried, of course, to force the magic out of him. they wouldn’t have considered themselves very good muggles if they hadn’t. but it proved to be quite impossible, and over the years of raising their nephew, mr and mrs dursley had to put up with a great deal of unusual situations that led to a certain sort of relief when, finally, the boy came of age and left. they saw the period of time where they themselves had to go into hiding - leaving number four, privet drive - as the last in a long line of accommodations they had to make for the boy they had never wanted. they hadn’t expected this to end with his death, but there wasn’t very much that they could do about it. and this was their way of thinking : it was out of their hands, and so too, was the boy.

now, they had never expected for their son, dudley, to want to leave to his world - and they made it clear that if he did, he wasn’t welcome back. but dudley made his choice and the dursley’s made theirs, and six years ago, they returned to number four, privet drive. 

when mr and mrs dursley retired to their living room on the dull, dark wednesday night that our story picks up on, they really weren’t expecting any visitors. mrs dursley, clutching a china cup filled with tea, gossiped happily as mr dursley searched the couch cushions for the remote, flicking on sky news and allowing the dulcet tones of the news anchor replace the gritty voice of his wife. now, were they to have glanced out the window - mrs dursley’s favorite activity, most evenings - then they might have seen several figures appear quite suddenly and almost as if from nowhere, right in the middle of the street. 

it was just after seven when there came a knock at the door. it was very late for visitors - mrs dursley had already slipped on her nightgown, and told mr dursley in no uncertain terms that if it was one of his golf friends, they would have to talk on the front porch. he grumbled about how he wasn’t expecting anyone all the way to the front door, which he unlocked and pulled wide with no real hesitation. 

mr dursley froze. fear flooded him. it was followed, swiftly, by anger. there was no denying the group of individuals on his front door step were one of his lot - he had never been able to stand the funny get ups they wore, and even in the dim porchlight, the robes were unmistakable. the dursleys were of the opinion that they had washed their hands of the magical world when their nephew had died and their son had chosen to leave. in simplest terms, this was an invasion of their privacy. 

“you have no right to be here,” mr dursley said, rather sharply. they had never had to deal with this, before. the first couple months after they had returned, they worried about number four, privet drive becoming a hub for this... riff raff to come goggle at the home of the once boy who lived. word had finally & evidently gotten out, and mr dursley was simply not going to abide by it - his foot was coming down, and it would never happen again, not if he saw to it.

he went to close the door. it was stopped with a small thud, and at first, he thought that one of them must have used magic to stop it. when he opened the door a little to look, he found that one of the nearest individuals - a tall man who’s face was covered by shadow - had stuck his foot out. mr dursley opened his mouth to say something, but before he even could, the small group were on the move.

the flash of a wand - held out from beneath one long cloak - was enough to keep mr dursley ahead of them, moving through the corridor as they bundled their way inside and shut the door behind them. his heart hammered and his cheeks seemed to grow more red by the second, with him finding it rather difficult to find his voice, all of a sudden. this lot certainly knew how to be intimidating, and he wasn’t very sure what to do. he scuttled along until he reached the door to the living room, and in a hurry, he pushed his way through it - closing it behind him for good measure and pushing in the little lock.

“petunia-” he began, moving away from the door and towards his wife. the note of alarm to his voice drew her gaze immediately, but she had no time to ask what was wrong and he had no time to explain before their living room door exploded inwards, leaving a mess of splintered wood, plaster and, when it slammed into the fireplace across from it, several ornaments and picture frames.

mrs dursley screamed and clambered to her feet, and her husband, who realized with a whimper just how close he had been to being caught in this explosion, rushed to her side. 

into the room poured the individuals from the hallway, one after the other. it was the man who had used his foot to stop mr dursley from closing the front door who had his wand out, now, and seemed to be the culprit, but he wasn’t the first to step inside. this honor fell to a woman with wildly curled hair knotted atop her head, a foot shorter than him, who everyone seemed to fall into step behind. the man remained close to her, always, but the others spread out around the room - blocking off all avenues for possible escape, even while mr and mrs dursley shrank into the corner of their sitting room, trying desperately to move away from them.

“l-l-leave-” mr dursley said. he meant to yell, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “leave this place at once-” 

“you have something that i need,” the woman announced, acting as if she hadn’t heard him at all. “give us the boys belongings and we’ll leave you be.” 

the boy. mr dursley had comforted himself many times over the past few years with the thought that they were done with all this carry on, now. the boy was gone. there was no reason for anyone to come near him and mrs dursley, especially as the man who had come to release them from their ‘safe house’ knew very well what he and petunia thought about his kind. he hadn’t been able to see how he and petunia could get mixed up in anything that might happen, again... hadn’t thought it could affect them... hadn’t realized how wrong he was.

“we don't- we haven't got- we-" he spluttered. 

"it's all gone," petunia said, from his side, her voice shaking. "everything we had is gone."

the woman looked towards his wife as if noticing her for the very first time, glint in her brown - bottomless, he thought - eyes. her expression didn't change in any way that he could see, but something shifted, and mr dursley felt rather as if he had been doused in ice cold water. she addressed petunia, now, "gone?" 

"inkwells and toad spawn and magic trick books-" mrs dursley's confidence did not grow, exactly, as much as an almost forgotten disdain resurfaced. just the thought of all the unnatural things they had lived with for so many years and disposed of double quick was enough to bring a certain venom back to her voice, the kind reserved for her nephew, "it's gone. burned. thrown away. it was useless to us." 

“i do hope that you’re lying.” the woman frowned. it was only the smallest change to her features, the slightest twist of her mouth, downwards - but mrs dursley shrunk back even moreso, now halfway behind her husband. “though i can’t say that it’ll go much better for you, if you are. i can’t stand liars.” 

petunia whimpered.

the other woman didn’t seem to notice and, with a sigh, shook off her cloak - draping it across the arm of the man still stood at her side. from a hidden pocket on her side she extracted a coal black wand. 

a breeze ruffled the neat hedges of privet drive, which lay tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect horrifying things to happen. the neighbours of number four slept peacefully, not knowing they were so near to such a story, not knowing that they would awake in a few hours time to the sound of sirens, nor that they would spend the next few weeks living in the middle of a media circus as news vans and reporters paid visit to the soon to be widowed husband of mrs petunia dursley.