#witchgranger

                        “—it’s merely a scratch,”                             she responded, at first                             not believing the injury                             was at all grave. It wasn’t                             until she put pressure on                             her foot did she realize how                                            s e r i o u s                             the injury turned out to be.                                                 Swallowing, she leaned up against                                                 the nearby tree, a frown present—                                                 an injury like this one would not                                                 do her any favors and surely a                                                 halt to her studies would happen if                                                 she had to stay in the infirmary for                                                 too long.              But it became evident that she              could not walk when she tried to              and ended up losing her balance,              falling into the arms of the former               professor.

           Lips pressed into a thin line            as he shook his head, his sm-            ile as if begging for her to tell him            what pained her instead.

            A scratch. He scoffs. L  i   a   r.             he could smell the iron, hot,            seeping from her blood. and he's            sorry. he's so, so---- -

                           "i'm sorry, miss granger. i--- -."                            it was when they apparated he                            figures, and a part of her legs                            have been left at the burrow. it                            was one, to have a scratch; and                            another for another part of you to                            be left behind. she'd be whole again                            soon, as was the beauty of the slinch,                            but for now she was not.

                           he supported her, of course, her                            weight like a shot of guilt that                            pressed against his chest as he                            stumbles backwards. it was no feat                            to hold her, but with such a conscience---- -

"--- I don't think you're supposed to touch that."

Can’t she be both just because—

                  ❝I wouldn't eat that if I were you.❞

     Smiling with an unnatural level of innocence, Roy tilts his head towards the hotdog stand only ten metres away, making sure to point out exactly where the vendor has been placing his hands; down his pants. Nobody wants to eat a hotdog with extra flavour -- that's for sure. Roy's just being a good guy.

     He takes a seat beside her on the park bench.

                          ❝Waste of $2 if you ask me, but he somehow earns a living.                  Don't feel bad. You didn't know. Only tourists buy from Jimmy's stand.❞

     Extending a hand in her direction, the teenager gazes at her with unabashed curiosity.

Charlie watched as the hesitant hands of dawn began to leak from the horizon. He had fortunately been an early riser for most of his life which managed to keep him a step ahead of the general chaos of the Weasley home, but where there had once been perpetual, imperceptible movement, now he was still; elbows propped on knees, gaze even and steady as it stayed fixed forward.

It seemed that no matter the time that passed, this home remained constant. Moving on had meant moving out but now there was nothing unfamiliar about the back porch he'd spent half his childhood on, nothing unnerving about the silence that meant the only creatures he'd encounter would be chickens. Old wood supported his weight the way it always had and he couldn't help but think the comfort was out of place. 

Of course it was. He chose not to dwell on it. 

It was spring but the air had not quite caught the memo; even as light began its slow, heavy duty of flooding out the inky twilight he let himself indulge, just for a moment, in the jarring juxtaposition. It was not something he'd keep with him for the rest of the day- there was too much to do, too many other things that needed to be dealt with. And, had there not been, he'd never been particularly skilled at wallowing anyway. 

Though, contrary to popular belief, he was rather good at planning ahead. Which he could have done now- had been doing for weeks as if it had any beneficial effect at all on his mother's well being. Even now there was the steadily increasing threat of checklists and chores and everything that had been so recently second nature. But that wasn't the point now- not in this moment. He exhaled the bullet points, let them fade into lingering ghosts. 

In the silence of the morning's shadow, the back door's opening was more than a little noticeable no matter its objective volume. He didn't flinch, merely waited the length of a breath before shifting his weight to the left hand braced behind his back and turning his head. 

She was feeling better, much better recently. It was hardly surprising, since a good two weeks had passes since she'd disposed of Tom's cursed diary by chucking it down the toilet in that abandoned bathroom. Even Percy, who'd been so busy trying to keep his relationship with Penelope Clearwater secret that he seemed to have time to notice precious little else recently, had commented that she was no longer looking as peaky as she had been all year.

And for good reason. The Chamber of Secrets threat was over; she hadn't been discovered, she wasn't going to be expelled. Tom was somewhere down the Hogwarts' drains where no-one would find him and he couldn't tell anyone else what she'd done while under his control. He was gone, and Ginny couldn't say she was sorry to have seen the last of him.